


Divine Pleasures of a Winter Fireside

by Hallianna



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And Lambert wanting some vampire action, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Consensual Kink, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Group Sex, Half-fae Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier needs care, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Original Female Character - Freeform, Scent Kink, Shameless Smut, Spitroasting, These boys need to kiss, They both like lady vampires, Threesomes, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Wolf Pack Dynamics, Wolf Witcher dynamics, adding this next tag, because everyone's horny now, but he doesn't know it, nonhuman jaskier, not timeline compliant, possessive geralt, smutty fun times, wintering at Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: Jaskier finally - finally - gets a cherished and much desired invite to winter at Kaer Morhen. He longs to see Ciri once again, as she grows up under Geralt’s care.But what he really wants, and truly desires, is to be near Geralt once more.But a crumbling fortress full of Witchers and a mysterious -and immortal - contact from Vesemir’s past make things even more interesting.Jaskier might have a thing for Geralt, but as he discovers, he also has a thing for Witchers in general.(Y’all, it’s porn. I mean, the plot is so thin you could use it as tissue. I also hope you like vampires.)
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Lambert/Original Female Character, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s), Lambert (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 82
Kudos: 219





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s admit it - The Witcher series needs more women who know their own mind and aren't hung up on "traditional" womanhood/femininity. And I despise the way many women are depicted, so this is my attempt to rectify that. 
> 
> And also smash Jaskier and Geralt together in all kinds of fun, sexy ways.
> 
> [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fDmNOTmdg8KgSmpArxOHT?si=kOiqAmU3RqapkAakFAYpsg)
> 
> EDIT: I want to also say thank you to everyone reading. I see your subscriptions and bookmarks and kudos and you're making an old fandom gal quite happy, especially because I a) haven't written in this fandom before and b) had no freaking idea y'all were so damn thirsty. But I now understand WHY.
> 
> EDIT Part 2: the expanded high vampire lore is mine, but it is informed by the Witcher wiki.
> 
> “Surely everyone is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a wintry fireside; candles at four o'clock, warm hearthrugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies to the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without.”― Thomas De Quincey, Confessions of an English Opium Eater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super not canon timeline compliant, in case that throws anyone off.
> 
> Art by me!

“Ah, if you’ll pardon me. I need to just get up here…”

Jaskier dodged another elbow as he danced through the crowd. Unlike the ragged peasants and occasional gilded noble, he was not in the square for the troubadours in cheap velvet playing worn instruments. 

_They’re barely able to eke out a half-assed note_ , he thought smugly as he reached back to caress the bottom of Filavandrel’s lute strapped to his back. _But if I so much as hear them play one note of mine, I’m claiming royalties from their tips._

Jaskier swerved as a woman with a basket on her hip suddenly turned, shouting “Oy!” as he did. The woman paid him no mind and Jaskier scoffed. “Ah Novigrad city,” he said under his breath. 

When he finally _finally_ reached the scaffolding he’d spotted on the other side of the cobblestone square, he leapt up, ignoring its ominous creaking. He wanted - no, needed - a better vantage point.

Because even in this crowd, he wanted to see the Witcher first.

Everything faded. The blaring of the troubadours, the buzzing of the crowd as they shifted and swayed, even the scent of overly fried meat and slightly rotten produce. It all faded. Because as he peered over the heads of hundreds of colorless people who didn’t matter, his gaze settled on one.

Black armor, as deep as the night and glistening with faded silver studs. Bright gold eyes that glinted in the midday sun, sparking like wildfire. And white hair. Whiter than the dirty snow piled on the streets. 

Brighter than any color. Brilliant and luminescent and impossibly _white_ . He could compose ballads on how impossibly white Geralt’s hair was. _Had_ tried, and failed previously. But now, right now, as his heart lifted and his spirits rose higher than the clouds in the sky?

He could compose the most beautiful, sonorous ballad anyone had ever heard and bring them to their knees as they wept. 

Oh yes, he was an absolute goner for that Witcher.

Jaskier waved, then cursed, realizing how stupid he must look sitting fifteen feet in the air, waving like his life depended on it. But the Witcher stayed on the outside of the crowd, those deep amber eyes scanning. Searching.

And then Geralt looked up. Jaskier’s heart leapt in his chest, feeling warmth suffuse his entire body. Geralt gave one single nod and began to walk away from the crowd and down a nearby alley.

Jaskier couldn’t help but follow.

Nothing mattered more than getting to his Witcher. He may have ducked more elbows and dodged more shifting peasants, but it didn’t matter. His vision narrowed until Geralt was in the center and everything else was hazy. 

And when he finally rounded the last corner, there was Geralt. Tall and strong and proud, clad in armor that fit like a second skin and two swords strapped to his back. That strong jaw practically carved from marble. And those eyes focused on him. Jaskier gave a little shiver under the weight of that gaze. 

“Ready?” It was less a word and more of a rumble, like stones clattering down from a mountaintop. 

Jaskier shifted the pack on his back and grinned. “Always.”


	2. Ascend the Trail

“Keep up, Jaskier.”

Jaskier hurried to catch up to Geralt, who was leading Roach up a particularly steep part of the trail. “You could have warned me the ground was almost completely vertical here, you know.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt clucked his tongue and Roach obeyed, dodging an outcropping of rocks to find a slightly flatter surface to walk. 

“How many days did you say we have left?”

“I didn’t.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Enlightening as always, Geralt.” But the words were without heat and he swore he heard the Witcher laugh a little under his breath. “And you said we’re not the only ones there for the winter?”

“We’ll be at Kaer Morhen by midday tomorrow. But it’s the worst part of the trail.” Geralt sighed, then tossed a bit more info to Jaskier. “My brothers and Vesemir. Ciri. And an old friend of Vesemir’s.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at that but nodded. “The first bits make sense but an ‘old friend’? You know that’s code, right?”

“For?” Geralt spared a glance over his shoulder at the bard, who was breathing heavily but keeping pace astonishingly well considering the challenge of the trail.

This time Jaskier did huff indignantly. “You can’t be serious. Geralt! Truly you understand that means, you know…. Well, how did you once put it to me? This is probably someone Vesemir ‘hid his sausage in’.”

“Hmmm.” 

Curiosity burned in Jaskier’s veins. He’d not yet met Vesemir or any of the other Wolf Witchers, but Geralt did speak of them when he was feeling particularly loquacious. Which was….about once a year. Jaskier knew Vesemir had trained Geralt and his two remaining brothers in arms, and that Vesemir had been a gruff substitute father in all ways possible to Geralt. So perhaps the paternal part of their relationship was why Geralt was mum on the subject of Vesemir’s secret guest. “Aren’t you the least bit intrigued? This person could be _anyone_.”

“It’s not anyone.” Geralt pointed at a familiar shadowy crevice in the nearby cliff. “That’s camp for the night.”

“But...but!” Jaskier frowned and hustled to catch up once more. His shoulders were aching from carrying two packs of supplies and cold weather clothes. Winter had not fully set in but the mountains were far more frigid and dry than any climate he was used to. 

As they made camp, a million questions sat on his tongue, but he had neither breath nor stamina to ask them. Geralt left for an hour and came back with a goat across his shoulders, and they worked quickly to dress and prepare it for dinner. Goat meat was a touch tough, but in the cold dark of the cave, Jaskier was grateful for the hot meal and Geralt’s silent company.

As they settled for bed, Jaskier carefully folded his traveling cloak and set it near the fire, watching Geralt brush down Roach. Geralt didn’t really need to sleep and usually stayed up through the night, dozing and meditating on and off. But he never settled himself before seeing to his horse. It was a routine Jaksier knew well by now.

They’d traveled together for years, typically breaking for the winter as Geralt headed to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier took jobs in the cities, either as a tavern’s house performer or teaching some noble’s spoiled brat how to play the lute. But it paid well, and that meant he would have coin for when he and Geralt met back up. And having coin meant spoiling his notoriously stubborn Witcher, who would rather sit in a lukewarm tub of only somewhat clean water and suffer it silently than be cared for. It had taken time and no small amount of patience, but Geralt finally let Jaskier do more than rub oil on his sore muscles. He now perfumed the bath water and procured all manner of soothing balms and oils; he was practically a traveling apothecary. And when Jaskier bought a small hardwood case for his collection of bottles and tins, Geralt said nothing but stayed near, watching, as Jaskier arranged everything just so.

Granted, he wanted to do _much more_ , given how deeply he enjoyed touching the Witcher in that intimate way. But Geralt never asked, and Jaskier was, shockingly, too shy to offer. But as he’d prepared to meet Geralt for their trip to the Witcher fortress, Jaskier had promised himself one thing.

_This winter, you find some way to ask. Be clever or flirty or bold, but you ask._

_You ask that gorgeous, glorious man if he’d like you to suck his cock and plunder his mouth with yours. And then you pray to Melitele’s tits that he says yes._

* * *

“Ten crowns she’s an old lover.”

Lambert scoffed. “No way. Not bettin’ with you after that horse race.”

Eskel threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve never seen a sorer loser than you, Lambert.”

The other Witcher grumbled under his breath but went back to chopping wood. Vesemir had gone off to meet Triss and Ciri, who were arriving by portal near Kaer Morhen. The young girl, now almost thirteen, had been under the sorceress’s tutelage for her burgeoning magical ability. And meeting them left Vesemir unable to greet their other guest arriving this day.

 _Be nice,_ he’d warned with a stern shake of his greying head. _She’s not been to Kaer Morhen in many years and I don’t want you louts giving her the wrong impression._

So Eskel and Lambert had gone out to do some of the seemingly endless chores, giving them a good view of The Killer. Vesemir hadn’t told them how she’d be arriving, but he’d imparted that this woman could easily handle The Witcher’s Trail.

A frightening thought, considering how difficult the path to Kaer Morhen was for a Witcher.

“He really didn’t tell you anything else?” Lambert asked as he tossed split firewood at Eskel.

“Nope. Just her name and that she might be coming up the Trail.”

“Huh.” He inclined his head at Eskel. “I bet you’re right. Old lover.”

* * *

The scent of cold stone and decayed vegetation greeted Leona as she stepped through the portal. _Kaer Morhen, my darling, you’re showing your age. But I’ve missed you._ She took a deep breath and smiled.

“As always, Ludanis, I appreciate the assistance,” she said over her shoulder. 

The man standing on the portal’s edge grinned and ran a hand through his long blond hair. “You know it’s always a pleasure to see you again, Leona. We don’t see enough of you as is.” He handed her two satchels, which she slid over her shoulders before picking up her suitcase. “Tell that old Wolf I said hello, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Leona waved and the portal closed with nary a sound. Ludanis had brought her to the edge of Kaer Morhen’s overgrown gardens, placing her on the back of the massive stone fortress. Her manners would have demanded she come in through the front, like any civilized creature, but she wanted to see the old girl on her own, just for a few moments. 

The gardens had once been stunningly beautiful, overseen by Vesemir and a few of his trainees. But that was long in the past and so much had changed. Kaer Morhen was a shadow of its former self, but for Leona, it held precious memories.

She placed a pale hand against the stone wall near her and closed her eyes. In her memory, the roaring fires, the clang of pewter utensils against wood plates, and the beds lined with thick furs and smelling of smoke were tied directly to this place. And it may be crumbling with age and decay, but it was still a second home.

The thunk of an axe blade against wood drew Leona out of her memory. Vesemir had said his two youngest Witchers would be on the premises to welcome her, but he was also keeping her details mum. Leona had to laugh at that - the old Wolf had never lost his grim sense of humor and seemed to enjoy taking the piss out of his Witchers even though they were long on The Path.

Her boots made no sound on the dirt and gravel path that wound around the outside of Kaer Morhen, and the cloud-filled sky kept her from casting a shadow that would give her away. They’d smell her first, which was fine; she had no desire to sneak up on two Witchers in their prime, especially not Wolves. A harsh huff of laughter echoed in the front of the building, and it was followed by the sharp crack of wood splitting. Leona paused before rounding the final corner and waited.

* * *

“That’s gotta be enough, right?”

Eskel cuffed Lambert upside the head. “Vesemir’ll have our asses if we don’t finish this.”

“Yeah, well -“ The younger Witcher paused. His amber eyes turned sharp and he lifted his face, sniffing. “The fuck?”

Without a word or sound, Eskel picked up a second axe and motioned for Lambert to follow. Once they were close enough to whisper to each other, Eskel said, “Blood. Old. No heartbeat though.”

“I’ve been described as worse.” The voice rang out from around the corner, and both Witchers could tell the owner was making themself known on purpose. Leona stepped into their view, her hands up to show they were empty. “Eskel and Lambert, I presume?”

Eskel immediately lowered his axe. She was as Vesemir had described, down to how she was dressed like a noble on a fox hunt. He eyed the long brown braid over one shoulder and the sharp features of her face. But she was built like a rogue, muscle and sinew lithe under her fine clothes. She could have been equally at home darting from rooftop to rooftop as she was astride a horse. 

He nodded and Lambert also lowered his weapon, but the younger Witcher’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion. “Though you were an old friend of Vesemir’s. Why do you smell like blood?”

Leona grinned at him, giving him the full flash of her fangs. “Ah, a story better told around a roaring fire and several good bottles of wine. But surely you know Vesemir spent a fair amount of time in his youth in Toussaint, so my answer won’t be too much of a shock, I think.”

* * *

Vesemir nodded his thanks to Triss, then turned to the girl beside the sorceress. “You ready, child?”

Ciri nodded, her face alight with wonder as she stared up at Kaer Morhen. “And Geralt will be here?” 

“He will, child.” Vesemir tossed a bag of coin at Triss, who smiled and tucked it away in her cloak. “Let’s get you settled. He and his bard should be arriving by supper.”

Triss kissed Ciri on top of her head, whispered something to her, and stepped back into the portal. Vesemir waited until it snapped closed before hefting Ciri’s bags over his shoulders. They walked the trail around the building’s perimeter for a few minutes before Vesemir said, “You enjoyed your time with Triss?”

Ciri bit her lip but nodded. “She’s kind. And she’s taught me some things.” The girl’s nose wrinkled. “But she also gave me assignments.”

That got a laugh out of the old Witcher. “You do your assigned work, and you train when we tell you, and I think you’ll enjoy your winter here. It’s cold, but once the snow falls, it’s -“

“Beautiful?”

Vesemir smiled down at the girl. “It is quite beautiful. The snowfall tends to soften the old girl’s edges a touch.”

He gave Ciri the tour, pointing out the various parts of Kaer Morhen. He showed her where she would be sleeping, and where Geralt’s room was. And the tour ended in the grand dining hall, stacked with boxes and crates of various alchemy supplies and random weapon and armor bits. But the massive, scarred wood table beside the stone fireplace on the west wall was the focus of her attention. Vesemir smiled as she ran her fingertips across a particularly deep divot in the wood; he remembered winters where dozens of young Witchers-in-training sat at this table, eating their weight and then some in venison and potatoes and bread.

It was a past he missed dearly.

But the past was also walking into the hall’s main doors, flanked by Lambert and Eskel. Lambert was far more wary of the woman to his left, which Vesemir had anticipated. If he’d told them who she was and why she was here, he would have bet all his coin that Lambert would have refused the escort. Eskel was more level-headed, more practical, and Vesemir had accurately predicted he’d keep the hot-headed Wolf in check.

Leona caught sight of Vesemir on the other side of the hall and with no warning or pretense, dropped her pack and rushed forward, using only a little of her supernatural speed. She collided with Vesemir, who took the hit with only a small exhalation, steadying them both with strong arms coiled around her waist.

Despite himself, Eskel grinned at the sheer relief on his mentor’s face as he hugged Leona tightly. Lambert looked away, feeling a little embarrassed at the open display of affection from Vesemir. But Ciri watched Vesemir and Leona embrace, not caring she didn’t understand fully what was happening. But she liked Vesemir and was happy to see him smiling so.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Vesemir said in Leona’s ear. “By all the gods it’s been too long.”

Leona reluctantly pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I have missed you, Wolf,” she said fondly, running her thumb over his cheek. “But we probably shouldn’t give the children the wrong idea.”

Vesemir laughed under his breath, a gravelly sound Leona had so dearly missed hearing. “You’ve met my wolves,” he said by way of introduction. “And the White one will be here later today with his bard.”

“Another face I’ve missed,” Leona said softly, knowing full well Eskel and Lambert could hear her. 

“Age has just made him grouchy.”

That made Leona arch a dark brow. “Says the grouchiest Witcher I know.”

He shook his head, grin still firmly in place. “And this is Ciri. She’s Geralt’s, too.” 

Leona extended an elegant hand to the girl, who didn’t hesitate to shake it. “I’ve heard much about you, my dear.” She leaned in, her gaze connecting with Ciri’s. Ciri sucked in a breath at the woman’s pupil-less brown eyes but held firm. “I’m here to help. You’ve learned some from the sorceresses, and I’m here to further that education.”

“You’re magic, too?”

“I know a bit of the old ways,” Leona acknowledged. “But your education with me starts with books, and plenty of them. Thank the gods above and below that Kaer Morhen has a significant library.”

Ciric tittered at Leona’s near-blaspheme, but worry creased her forehead. _She’s too young to have such concerns_ , Leona thought. “You’ll do fine, child. Don’t worry a bit. Just focus on seeing your Witcher again.”

Ciri blinked. “You know Geralt?”

“We’ve met a few times.” Vesemir scoffed behind her but stayed silent. “I’ll tell you the story later, at dinner.” Leona straightened and smoothed down her long coat. “With any luck, I can make the White One blush.”

Eskel barked a laugh at that. “I like her, Vesemir. I’d willingly pay to watch someone make Geralt flush.”

* * *

The last part of The Witcher’s Trail was, indeed, the hardest. Jaskier could barely see the broad back of the Witcher ahead of him, but he also felt guilty; Geralt was clearly slowing down so Jaskier could keep pace. But he didn’t have enough breath to encourage Geralt forward. 

His lungs _burned_ and he couldn’t feel his feet. Or his hands. And strangely his scarf wasn’t keeping his face as warm as it had been. Snow was crusting his eyelashes. The wind bit through his five (yes five!) layers. Jaskier blinked and saw two Geralts.

“Muh,” he said, his voice dying in the wind. 

He sank to his knees in the snow, feeling the cold seep into his pants. Going to sleep felt like a very good idea at the moment, actually. And the snow was soft, it’d be fine if he just put his head down -

“Jaskier!” Geralt had noticed the lack of crunching footsteps behind him and spun around to see Jaskier face-down in the snow. Kaer Morhen’s form loomed on the hill above. They were _so close_ but Jaskier couldn’t make the final few hundred steps. Giving Roach the order to stay, Geralt slipped down the hill and scooped up the bard. He was cold, his lips going blue around their edges. Geralt was all too familiar with the signs of hypothermia and he cursed. “Godsdammit, bard,” he bit out, shifting the bard’s weight to one arm as he flung his own cloak over Jaskier’s limp body. “Not now. Not so close to home.”

High on anger and worry, Geralt took off at a clip up the path, clicking at Roach to follow. The horse knew this trail well and would navigate it without Geralt’s guidance. His only concern was the cold human body in his arms.

The wet dirt slipped under his feet as he veered into the fortress’s main courtyard, but he stayed upright, yelling. “Vesemir!”

The main doors of the keep slammed open and several figures came rushing out. Vesemir took one look at the stricken expression on Geralt’s face and began barking orders. “Eskel, fill the tub. Lambert, bank the fires in the baths, the hall, and Geralt’s room.” 

As he reached out to Geralt to take Jaskier from him, a blur of motion sped by and suddenly Leona was standing in front of the White Wolf. “I’m faster,” she said, taking Jaskier from him. “Come.”

Geralt nodded and took off at a clip, snagging Ciri off the ground and into his arms. “Not the way I wanted us to meet back up,” he rumbled at her shocked face. “But Jaskier’s important, too.”

She nodded. “I know, Geralt. Vesemir told me he’s your friend.”

_My friend. My truest friend. The person who came back after I said cruel, heartless things. Who came back after I pushed him away over and over again. The only person I can let my guard down around._

_A bard. A human. It should have never happened. But it did. And I trust him more than anyone._

The words stuck in Geralt’s throat, so he just nodded and followed Leona up to his room, taking the stairs three at a time, legs pumping, lungs burning. His slow heart sped up, anxiety coursing through his veins in a way that made his stomach churn. 

_You can’t die, Jas. You can’t. I should have been paying closer attention. I should have noticed the change in your scent. I should have heard you struggling to breathe, should have caught the shivers wracking your body._

He swallowed hard before gently setting Ciri down at the top of the stairs. “Stay here, in case we need anything.” Once she nodded he burst into his room.

Eskel was dumping bucket after bucket of steaming hot water into the large copper tub while Leona was stripping Jaskier of his clothing, tossing away his embroidered velvets and ridiculous bright green thermals as if they hadn’t cost the bard hundreds of crowns. Geralt wanted to bark at her for it, but couldn’t after he saw her hand Jaskier to Eskel.

“I can’t warm him,” she said, quickly swapping an empty bucket for a full one. Spotting Geralt near the door, she motioned to the fireplace. “Bank that higher, as hot as you can get it without burning the curtains down.”

“Can I help?” 

Leona motioned Ciri forward without looking up. “Get Vesemir’s pack from him. He’ll know the one. As quick as you can, child.”

The patter of Ciri’s feet faded as she ran back downstairs and the three people left moved in silent tandem. Eskel began rubbing warmth back into Jaskier’s limbs as Leona finished filling the tub. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small stoppered vial, uncapping it with one pointed canine. 

Geralt’s hand wrapped around hers. “What is that?”

“Chamomile, feverfew, sage. More for his comfort than anything else.”

Geralt nodded and let go; in an instant, the oil concoction was in the tub and Eskel gently placed Jaskier into the steaming water.

“Keep it heated, but not too hot,” Geralt instructed Eskel. He was trying desperately to ignore the light scent of chamomile and the memories it threatened to spill. He focused on rubbing Jaskier’s hands between his own, his massive palms dwarfing the bard’s. 

“He’ll live, Geralt,” Leona said softly. “He’ll be sore and perhaps have a fever, but he’ll live.” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, White One.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, the words harsher than he meant them to be. But she only nodded, squeezing him once before slipping out the door to find Ciri.

“Hell of a day,” Eskel said as Jaskier began to rouse in the bath. “Don’t know we’ve had such an exciting set of arrivals in...well, a damn long time.” He reached out with a scarred hand to touch Geralt’s arm. “It’s good to see you, brother.”

Geralt huffed. “Don’t like dramatics,” he said sourly, trying not to curl into Eskel’s familiar touch. 

“Somehow I think that’s a tad false on your part.” He grinned. “You’re the one traveling with a bard.”


	3. Of Injuries and Blood and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some angsty/pining hurt-comfort, Lambert being Lambert, and Jaskier being way too curious about vampires. Also Vesemir and Leona being good friends and sentimental and Geralt being a proud dad.
> 
> CW: discussions of injuries; blood drinking
> 
> Also why are these chapters so damn long?!?

Wherever Jaskier was, he was very, very warm and at the same time being suffocated. Weight sat on his chest, on his arms, even on his eyes, and he was completely, thoroughly pinned in place. With a grunt, he thrashed against his bonds and they relented, but the warmth was still there. 

“Calm, calm,” a deep voice whispered in his ear. “Jaskier, it’s okay.”

Jaskier whimpered, turning into the voice and its oddly familiar tone. 

As he did so, Geralt’s heart broke just a little. Jaskier looked so fragile, so small in his arms. Part of him marveled at the frail form of humans; their bones broke under simple twists, their flesh tore with just a few pounds of pressure. But Jaskier was different. Special.

 _His_. 

The word, encapsulated in a single thought, rattled through his mind like loose marbles across a wood floor. He didn’t know where to begin, but he knew where he wanted to end. Geralt pulled Jaskier into his arms, resting his chin on the bard’s head. “Are you awake?” he asked softly, hoping Jaskier had enough in him now to answer.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier’s question was so soft, so sweet, that Gerald melted on the spot. _Goddamned bard_ , he thought while fighting back a smile. The last thing he needed to do was scare Jaskier, and the infamous White Wolf smiling would certainly induce a stroke. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Eyes still screwed shut, Jaskier poked himself in the chest. His fingertip met warm skin and nothing else. _Odd_. “Am I dead?”

Perhaps it was the panic of earlier, or the fatigued relief of knowing he was now safe. Whatever it was that rose unbidden, almost giddily, in Geralt’s chest pushed him forward. He nosed at Jaskier’s neck and inhaled.

A wolf scenting his packmate.

Chamomile and sage, woodsmoke and pine, and under that, the scent of Jaskier. Of his blood pumping in the veins under thin skin at his throat. Of his thready pulse that jumped at Geralt’s simple touch. _Mistake. What a stupid thing to do. Now you’ll always want to smell him_. “You smell alive to me,” he said thickly.

 _Now_ Jaskier’s eyes snapped open, taking in the sight of Geralt of Rivia, bright-eyed and shirtless, his face a blank mask of expression save for the notch of worry between his brows. And now the weight he’d felt earlier made a startling amount of sense. Geralt’s arms, heavy with muscle, were wrapped around Jaskier’s naked chest. Jaskier looked down at himself again, searching for wounds or marks - anything to explain what was going on.

“You fell. In the snow.” Geralt looked away, his mouth now a thin slash. “We got you warmed up but hypothermia’s tricky. So I needed to keep you warm, make sure you woke up.” He gave a one shouldered shrug, like his words had no room or argument or error. “And you’re always bitching about how cold you are and how warm I am, so I figured -“

Jaskier’s head hit the pillow with a dull thud. “I’m going to stop you there, Geralt. I might still be a bit addled, but I swore you just said you climbed into bed, with me, to keep me warm.”

“To keep you from freezing your ass off,” Geralt corrected in a rough voice. “It was bad, Jaskier. Really bad.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “Must have been. I didn’t figure you for the cuddling type.”

Geralt snorted and Jaskier spotted the tremble in his lips; a surefire sign the Witcher was holding back a tiny grin. “How are you feeling?”

Jaskier stretched, feeling the scratch of rough sheets and plush density of furs beneath his body. In fact, he felt that all over. Confused, he wiggled a little, brushing against Geralt at the same time.

 _I’m going to kill him_ , Geralt thought as he watched Jaskier wiggle and writhe and cursed his body for wanting to respond. “Can’t conduct body heat well through clothes.”

“So I’m naked. In bed.” _With you_.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, bard.”

Jaskier barked out an incredulous laugh. “And I’m to assume we’re at Kaer Morhen? Your home? Where I’m naked in bed with you?”

Jaskier’s voice was doing that high-pitched tremble, and Geralt knew that meant the other man was trying to lock puzzle pieces together while holding onto his disbelief. “No one cares,” Geralt said soothingly, pushing Jaskier back down with a hand to his chest. “Kaer Morhen is the home of the Wolf Witchers, Jas. It’s seen all manner of things. A little nudity and hypothermia won’t make a dent.”

Jaskier stared at him, agog. Finally, he snapped his mouth shut while his thoughts swirled. _Certainly not the way I was hoping we’d end up in bed together, but some part of me can’t find any fault with it._ “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose dozens of young men amped up on violence and adrenaline made for some...interesting times.” He settled back down in bed but didn’t move out of the circle of Geralt’s arms. “Any other surprises I should know about?”

“Ciri’s excited to see you once you’re better.”

That made Jaskier grin. “I’m excited to….oh no. Did she see me - ”

“Only a little, when we were rushing up the stairs. She helped Vesemir and Leona make potions to keep you stable.”

The pride in Geralt’s voice hit Jaskier square in the heart. He sounded a bit like a gruffly affectionate father, watching his daughter use her burgeoning talents to help others. It was…..Melitele help him, it was _adorable_. Then he frowned. “Who is Leona?”

“Vesemir’s friend.” Geralt saw the spark of interest light up Jaskier’s eyes, so he shook his head. “You’ll meet her later.”

“Is she pretty?” When Geralt only grunted in reply, Jaskier poked him in the chest. “Geralt, come on.”

With a sigh, Geralt relented. “Very. And very out of your league.”

“Piss on it, I’m not interested that way.”

“You say that now.”

Hand to his heart, Jaskier said, “Do you know the kind of ballad I could write about them? The aging Witcher and the beautiful….” He paused, head cocked. “Sorceress?”

“Nope.”

“Some kind of half-fae? Or elven? Geralt, clue me in here.”

“Vampire.”

“What? Wait, let me correct that. WHAT?”

Geralt sunk into the pillows with a smirk. “I thought that might get your attention.”

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, his eyes rolled skyward in thought. “Um, Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

“If I’m naked and you’re spooning me for warmth, or rather to give it, does that mean…”

Geralt nudged Jaskier’s bare knee with his clothed one. “It probably would have been smarter but I didn’t want to make this any worse than it was.”

“Oh.” Jaskier shifted uncomfortably. Geralt smelled the awkwardness, the worry; like a batch of bread baked just a little too long. “I wouldn’t have minded. You did save my life, after all. Again.”

That drew Geralt up short. He chewed on his cheek before answering. “Clothes are just thinner armor, Jaskier. And to be naked is to be vulnerable. I didn’t think it was right.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed but now he was staring right at Geralt as though trying to ascertain what he actually meant. “I know. You always try to do right, even if it makes things difficult.” He placed a hand on Geralt’s bicep, squeezing gently. “Thank you.”

The raw vulnerability on Jaskier’s face made Geralt’s heart constrict a little. “Sure. I mean, you’re welcome.” He patted Jaskier’s shoulder and sat up, rolling the stiffness out of his neck. Jaskier wasn’t a small man and holding him close while he slept had been both thrilling and difficult. 

And very, very confusing.

“Stay here. Rest,” Geralt commanded, his tone brooking no arguments but no real command, either. “I need to go check on Ciri.”

Jaskier nodded, busily burrowing back in the covers well-heated by Geralt’s body. As Geralt turned to pick up his shirt from a nearby chair, Jaskier let himself look Geralt over. His back was impossibly broad, pale skin scarred and nicked in dozens of places. Most of the scars were white with age but a few were shiny and pale pink. He’d been there for those and could catalog each one - water hag claw, foglet fang, harpy swipe. He’d cleaned off the blood and muck, applied healing salves and oils, and then stitched each ragged tear, listening to Geralt breathe through the pain.

“You’re staring, Jaskier.”

The bard rolled his eyes. “I’m making sure those wounds I stitched months ago were healing all right. I’ve sewn you up enough by now that you’d think I’d be more confident in my work but yet, here we are.”

Chuckling, Geralt pulled the shirt over his head and re-crossed the room in two steps. One big, warm hand cupped Jaskier’s chin and gently lifted his face so they could stare into each other’s eyes. “You did more than good,” Geralt said softly, gaze tracing over his bard’s features. “Wouldn’t trust anyone outside of you to fix me.”

 _He’s so close. Too close_. The heat of Geralt’s breath caressed Jaskier’s lips, and those gorgeous amber eyes never once relented in their intensity. “Good to know,” Jaskier replied throatily, unable to tear away from the Witcher.

“Hmmm.” Geralt ran the pad of his thumb over the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw. Then down. It settled on his pulse point and Jaskier was suddenly, furiously embarrassed at how fast his heart was beating. _He probably thinks I’m having a heart attack_ , he thought, knowing his face was flushing under the careful attentions of his friend. “Rest, bard. I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready.”

Jaskier couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Desire burned in his lungs and his hands itched to pull Geralt down and over him so he could know what it was like for their chests to touch, to feel coarse hair tangle with his.

He wanted to _feel_ and _bite_ and _lick_ and he wanted it _now_.

Maybe he whimpered, or breathed in too quickly. Whatever signal he gave Geralt he couldn’t tell over the thunder of blood in his ears, but something made Geralt’s nostrils flare. Those cat eyes narrowed but didn’t harden. “Stay," Geralt said, more purr than word, and now Jaskier could only nod. “Good boy.”

Geralt swept out of the room, sparing one glance back at a sweating, flushed Jaskier.

Jaskier waited until Geralt was certainly out of earshot before groaning into his balled fist. 

* * *

Keeping Ciri occupied was a task Leona took to with great enthusiasm. One of the primary reasons Vesemir had asked for her to winter at Kaer Morhen was to help teach Ciri magical theory and history. No one - not the Witchers or the sorcerers from Aretuza - understood the full breadth of Ciri’s blossoming powers. But a mage unchecked was dangerous.

A mage with Elder blood ten times so.

As Leona sat with Ciri, showing her how to navigate various tomes on magical theory, the other Witchers went about their work. “We work until sundown and then we’ll start dinner,” Vesemir said to her before heading outside. There was more wood to gather, the horses need rubbed down, and while Vesemir wasn’t saying it, he wanted to give Geralt and Jaskier some space. 

One look at Geralt’s face as he rushed into the keep, a limp human man in his arms, and Vesemir felt his old heart twist painfully. He knew that look. It was the look he warned his boys about when they were young and foolish and ready to take comfort in the first human who wasn’t afraid of their cat-like eyes and double swords. 

_Humans needed Witchers_ , he told them, _but they don’t want to admit it. So they’ll hate you, spit in your face, and deny you a bed at the inn. But they’ll gladly let you risk your life for them, and then force you to threaten them for your rightful pay. So don’t fall for a human. It never ends well. It could take days or years, but eventually they’ll see you as more monster than man._

As he tended to Roach, who graciously allowed him to brush and wipe her down, he shook his head. Geralt was in trouble, and it was the kind of his own making.

For the sake of that stubborn-headed mule of a Witcher, he hoped Jaskier felt the same way.

“Oy, Papa Vesemir,” Lambert called from the courtyard. “We done here or what?”

Vesemir cursed a bit before replying. “Yeah, go in, but get those fires in the kitchens hot. We’ve got more mouths to feed.”

He heard the thunk of an axe in wood, and then Lambert cajoling Eskel about how he’d stared at Leona. “She’d just eat you,” Lambert said between bouts of laughter. “One Eskel for dinner, coming up.”

Vesemir shook his head and allowed himself a small smile. He took his time with Roach and the other horses, even as the sun sank into the horizon and he had to narrow his eyes to make out finer details. By the time he was finished, light blazed from the windows of Kaer Morhen and the multiple chimneys blew out coils of dark grey woodsmoke. He loved winters at the keep, even if he grumbled for show at the return of his Witchers. There were so few of them now, and the only hope of making more rested with sorcerers and their books and concoctions. 

It was possible, Triss told him, but it would take years of research. The Trial of the Grasses would never be the same; couldn’t be the same. But if the Wolves were to survive, they needed to change many things. 

Change was usually unwelcome in a Witcher’s life, but Vesemir swore that even if it took his final breath, the School of the Wolf would rise again.

* * *

Leona could see Ciri’s eyes glazing over the deeper they got into _The Codex of Magic and the Theory of Chaos_. And while the young woman had a sharp mind, Leona knew she was overwhelmed. It buzzed off her like magic did, a thin veneer of interest spiked with exhaustion. “I think we’ll call it a day there, hmm?”

Ciri blinked slowly but said, “What? No, I want to keep going.”

 _Ah, the exuberance of youth_. Leona patted her hand. “We’ve all winter and trust me, this is just the beginning. You’ve barely arrived and I’ve already thrown quite a bit at you. And I know Vesemir is itching to get you out to train. We’ll pick this back up once you’re settled.” She smiled, being careful to not show her fangs. They hadn’t broached her origins yet, but there had been a time or two where she’d caught Ciri staring and couldn’t help but wonder if the girl suspected something.

She was being raised by Witchers, after all.

Leona sent Ciri to the library to put away the books, watching her bound up the stairs and disappear around the corner. And as her heartbeat left the room, Leona sensed four more approaching - slow and steady with the unnatural metabolism of mutation. 

“Ask,” she said smoothly as she turned in her chair. “Vesemir and Geralt know. But you two don’t. So ask.”

That brought Lambert up short and Eskel had to bite back a chuckle. But while the scarred, dark-haired Witcher smelled like curiosity, the younger one’s scent had a bite of annoyance - reluctance - to it. 

But it was Lambert who spoke, his gaze carefully trained on Leona. “You and Vesemir?”

She shrugged, smiling as Vesemir approached. There was caution in her friend’s steps, a wariness that showed how worried he was despite his blank face. “I saved his life long ago. Nothing so heroic as a Witcher fighting off a kikimora, mind you. But the bandits were well supplied and funded and they meant to rob Vesemir and slit his throat.”

Lambert’s mouth thinned. “And you just happened by?”

Leona laughed. “Oh no. I was after the bandits. Tracking them. Easy to do when humans stink like fear and hatred so much.” She dipped her head. “Something I figure you’re all quite familiar with.”

Eskel wrinkled his nose. “Smells like sour milk and refuse.”

She gave a little shudder. “Ruins the taste, too.”

 _That_ made Lambert freeze. Nothing so dramatic as a gasp or his hand going for his weapon. Witchers were more subtle than that, more schooled in keeping their bodies neutral until need arose. But his spine stiffened and his heart kicked up just a notch; two things Leona noticed immediately. “So what, you save Vesemir and ate the bandits?”

“Drained every single one of them, tossed their bodies in the canal, and then took Vesemir back to my home to tend to his wounds.”

Lambert spluttered a little as Eskel’s eyes narrowed. “She’s fucking with you,” Geralt said from behind the vampire. “You really shouldn’t be played so easily.” He pointed at Eskel. “Lambert doesn’t surprise me, but you do, brother.”

Eskel had the wherewithal to look sheepish. “I didn’t believe her. But I haven’t heard any vampire be so -”

“Bold?” she asked, leaning in with a grin.

Eskel rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

She stood and stretched, working out the kinks from sitting bent over books with Ciri. “Do you really think Geralt and Vesemir would trust me around two humans - one a child - if I did such things?” Leona clucked at Eskel. “Female vampires are the more brutal of the species, but we’re not all bruxas. I was within my rights to drain those bandits for trying to harm a Witcher, but getting rid of bodies is never easy.”

Lambert huffed indignantly. “Yeah well, fuck this. I’m hungry and dinner isn’t making itself.” He stomped off to the kitchens, leaving Vesemir to shake his head and Eskel to follow in his wake.

“I knew he’d be difficult but that was a tad dramatic,” the old Witcher said by way of apology to Leona. “He knows better.”

She put a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Not a worry, old friend.” She turned to Geralt. “How is your bard?”

Something kicked in his chest at her easy, casual use of the possessive. “Better. Still resting. But I’ll fetch him soon. Jaskier’s not one to go without a meal.” 

Geralt turned in time to see Ciri flying at him, long blond hair coming undone, boots skidding across the worn stone. He grabbed her just as she leapt and spun her around. The sheer joy on his face could have broken down the most stalwart of souls in that moment. “Hey cub,” he said into her hair, scenting her without thought or embarrassment. She smelled like sunshine and pine trees and old paper; and under all that, the boisterous, overwhelming scent of joy. It had no origins, no top or bottom notes, but Geralt knew it all the same.

As Geralt listened to Ciri talk animatedly about what she learned from Triss and the things Leona had been explaining to her, he took a seat at the table, setting her in his lap like an overwhelmed but proud father. “That is, I dare say, adorable,” Leona said in Vesemir’s ear. “My goodness, the White Wolf a father?”

He chuckled and tugged her away to give Geralt and Ciri some privacy. He caught Geralt’s nod of thanks before his attention refocused on his young charge. Leona followed Vesemir out to the gardens, smiling as she let herself be led back to their favorite place in Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir sagged against a crumbling wall and swiped a hand down his haggard face. “Wouldn’t blame you if you decided to leave after a fuck-up of a first day,” he grumbled.

“What? Vesemir, whyever would you think that?” She crowded beside him, their shoulders brushing as she picked up his hand to examine it. “You know I love it here.”

“Sorry about Lambert. Actually, I’m sorry about all of them.” He rolled his eyes skyward and sighed. “Never thought my Witchers would be prone to such dramatics.”

Leona stared at the ground for several long moments, letting the silence of the twilit garden wrap around them. Vesemir was her oldest friend. It started a century ago and turned into countless wine-soaked evenings by smoky fireplaces; days walking The Path together when the mood struck them; and of tending to each other’s needs when no one else could be trusted. So many in this world had the ridiculous notion that women and men couldn’t be friends without fucking, or that once they fucked, things had to change. At first, Leona had appreciated Vesemir’s casual displacement of traditional norms. He walked his own road, and Leona hers, but each meeting was fond and gratifying. But as the years ticked on, their bond grew. Sometimes they didn’t see one another for years, but no amount of time or distance dimmed their admiration for each other.

Friendships had been formed on less.

“You worry too much, old friend,” she said finally, reaching out to interlace their fingers. She almost sighed at the nearness of his warmth; Witchers were always so warm, and even when their bumps and bruises and scars formed a hardened shell, she knew them to be malleable, moveable. 

Vesemir grunted but squeezed her hand in reply. 

Leona let her head thunk against the stone, her gaze tracing up along the line of pine trees until she saw nothing but hazy purple sky. Clouds slipped by overhead, and the barest shine of a waxing moon began to peep through. “It’s going to be a good winter,” she said softly, looking back down at Vesemir. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

* * *

Dinner was a simple affair - meat and bread and root vegetables but it was warm and hearty and Eskel kept the wine flowing. Though Geralt did have to warn Ciri about drinking a second cup of wine. “It’ll go straight to your head, cub,” he muttered in her ear. “Maybe we try not to get you drunk on your first night here.”

Ciri scowled but let Geralt swap her wine for water. He glanced over at Jaskier, who was seated across from him but hanging on every single one of Leona’s words. The vampire was telling raucous stories about her travels with Vesemir, and Vesemir was content to let her do so without interference.

“So this creature - completely covered in mud and moss and its own offal, mind you - charges at Vesemir. Have you ever seen a headless cockatrice flop around?”

“Oh, that’s a song right there,” Jaskier said, pulling out a notepad and stubby pencil. “Hmm, _The Headless Cockatrice of Skellige_?” He smiled at Leona. “If the lady permits, that is.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You are a charmer, aren’t you? Oh Geralt, I like this one.” 

Jaskier flushed, ducking his head to hide his grin, but he quickly focused on the delicate way Leona speared venison onto her fork and raised it to her mouth. “I didn’t think vampires could, uh, you know. Eat.”

“An acquired taste, for sure,” Leona replied after swallowing. She felt four pairs of Witcher eyes follow the bob of her throat. One or two Witchers she was used to, but four staring at her left the vampire feeling a tad too _seen_. “But we can eat, just not much. It’s mostly for show, so we don’t scare the humans with which we must inevitably interact.”

“But you prefer blood.” It was less question, more statement, though Geralt watched Jaskier squirm in his seat upon asking. 

“I do.”

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier stared her down, two pink spots high on his cheeks but not a bit of fear in his voice. “Human?”

Leona shrugged. “If it’s offered freely. Otherwise animal suits me just fine. Others of us have more discerning palates.”

Maybe Geralt shouldn’t have been so taken aback. Jaskier had never once been afraid of _him_ , and anyone who approached a Witcher cold with nary but a joke about bread in their pants surely had more bravery - or a disquieting lack of common sense - than the average human.

“Interesting,” Jaskier muttered as he went back to scribbling furiously in his notepad. Leona fought to keep the smile off her face and barely won, but she caught the slight sigh Geralt let out and winked at him.

When the wine ran out over the remnants of their meal, Leona offered to retrieve it. “It’s a cask,” Vesemir said. “Geralt, go with her.”

“You realize I could lift two casks with one hand, right?” she shot back.

Vesemir just waved her on. “Yes, but this one,” and he jerked a thumb at Geralt, “has hardly worked since he arrived. And spooning the bard doesn’t count.”

Geralt huffed at the older Witcher but obeyed, leaving Ciri to laugh and Jaskier to choke on his wine while Eskel and Lambert snorted into their cups.

The unlikely pair wound through the halls then down the stone stairs to the wine cellars. It was dark but neither needed the light to see, so Leona let Geralt take the lead. “It’s not like the wine cellar moved,” he said over his shoulder.

She shrugged. “Perhaps I just want to watch you walk in front of me.”

Geralt grumbled something even her keen hearing didn’t pick up but he kept walking as she laughed softly at his thinly disguised embarrassment. Once they reached the wine cellar, deep in Kaer Morhen’s depths, he cast **_Igni_ **at the torches on the wall. They flickered to life, sputtering weakly in the dry air.

“Hmm, Vesemir didn’t say which cask,” Leona said as she ran her hand over the nearest one. “Does he have a preference?”

Geralt looked around, taking stock of the various labeled and unlabeled oak containers. “There.” 

They made their way to the back of the vast wine cellar. The cask he’d pointed at was unlabeled, but the iron bands around its body had some kind of a brand on them. Leona’s face lit up with recognition. “Fifty year Est Est,” she breathed. “Melitele’s tits, I didn’t know he still had this.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt eyed the cask, tucking a hand underneath the rack it sat on, and then lifted. It was heavy, but not too much. “Vesemir mentioned he had this set aside for a special occasion. Seems like the right night for it.”

“Geralt, you don’t have to play the stodgy Witcher with me,” Leona teased, watching the muscles in his forearm bunch as he tested the cask’s weight. “I know better.”

“We haven’t seen each other since Belleteyn a decade ago,” Geralt replied matter-of-factly.

“Ten years is a blip on a vampire’s calendar.”

“True. It’s not much longer on a Witcher’s.” He turned to face her, giving her a long, exploratory look. “You know he’s talking about going on The Path again?”

Leona schooled the fleeting look of shock off her face, but not quickly enough. “Last he told me, he was going to stay at Kaer Morhen and usher in the new batch of Witchers, once Aretuza figured out their half of the bargain.”

“We both know his body will give out before they manage to make a new Trial.”

Leona chewed on her lip and Geralt couldn’t help but marvel at how _human_ of a nervous tick it was. The tooth that bit into her bottom lip was sharper than a stiletto, but it didn’t mar the effect. “I offered to turn him years ago,” she finally said. “I only have the energy once every few decades or so. I think he very seriously considered it, but then he said you were all too young and you needed him and he couldn’t leave you like that.”

Guilt swam in his gut for the umpteenth time in less than a day. “Goddammit, Vesemir,” he growled, feeling the sudden urge to punch something. “How long ago?”

“Thirty...no, thirty-two years ago.”

Geralt growled low in his throat. “Too young? I was in my sixties then.”

Like a trainer gentling a horse, Leona put a hand on his arm. The touch was feather-light, meant to calm. “Geralt...I know what he means to you. But try to see it through his eyes. Vesemir has never, ever abandoned his boys, no matter how old they get. He loves you all too much.”

“And how does going back on The Path help us?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Her tone held no scolding, only truth, and it burned inside him. He did know the answer. There were too few Witchers left, and the Wolf legacy held only amongst the four of them. Fate had not been on their side so far in restoring their house, and it was a duty Vesemir took more personally than anyone else. 

“He’s not abandoning us by staying at Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said in a low voice, his gaze holding her in place. “And going back on The Path isn’t the answer.”

“So what is?” Her hand flexed on his arm, grounding him. 

Geralt pulled away from her with a grunt, swinging around to punch the closest stone support. He focused his anger and frustration and worry into that one hit and came away with bloodied knuckles. But the momentary haze over his eyes cleared as he blinked rapidly. Two of his knuckles were already sporting blossoming bruises, and his index and middle knuckles were slashed open, the unforgiving stone like a jagged saw through his skin.

“You might want to let your bard take care of you,” she said softly over his shoulder. “My guess is he’s the type to enjoy that.”

“I don’t want him to worry.” The words were gruff but the affection was clear.

Leona held out her hand. “Then let me.”

Geralt didn’t hesitate to put his hand in hers, but he did want to know one thing. “When’s the last time you tasted Witcher?”

She laughed. “If you’re worried about me getting high, it won’t happen. Not on so little blood.”

Geralt grunted. “We’re a lot more potent than humans.”

“Oh, of that I’m aware.” Leona bent her head, her braid swinging out to just brush against his side. “Are you sure?”

“Just hurry up before everyone starts wondering what we’re doing.”

The first pass of her tongue over his injury was wet and shockingly warm. Geralt chose to focus on staring at the top of her head but soon shifted his attention to the sight of the vampire licking his wounds closed. It was oddly erotic, the brush of her lips and tongue on his broken skin. He didn’t dare move while she tended to him but he also knew her senses were more heightened than his.

She certainly heard his heartbeat kick up at her ministrations.

And then too soon, it was over. Geralt’s knuckles had been licked clean, the skin knitted and any evidence of his outburst erased. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

He hefted the cask over one shoulder and motioned for her to follow. After a few moments, he said, “I’m not yours to snack on.”

“Not to worry, White One. You’re not quite to my taste.” Her laughter echoed behind him as they traversed the stairs once more.


	4. The Oath of Blood and Blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jaskier and Geralt get cozy (and Geralt teases Jaskier horribly), Jaskier discovers he’s not fully human, and Leona tries to fix the library. Also a lot of sniffing Jaskier, which he doesn’t seem to mind.

The days passed in a blur - chores and repair work and Ciri’s studies kept everyone busy from sunup to sundown. But once dinner was served, the evenings wiled away pleasantly, bottles of wine shared around the massive table in the grand hall. Ciri almost always fell asleep rather early, her head against Geralt’s shoulder, long blond hair spilling over his arm. He’d tuck her away in her bed like a child half her age, then rejoin the rest.

In just a few weeks’ time, Jaskier had penned five new songs, two of them rather promising. He chose to test them on the others, and he counted it as a success if the Witchers didn’t teasingly chuck hunks of bread at him.

The first major snow fell during the second week, and that was the sign that winter had finally arrived at Kaer Morhen. Just in time for the wolves to finish shoring up a broken part of the roof over the tower and winterizing the horse stable.

One morning during the third week, Jaskier was wandering the fortress, lost in thought. He’d had a few bars of a melody trapped in his head all morning and it was driving him mad, so he let his feet carry him into a wide, long hallway, where a balcony overlooked the eastern courtyard. As he neared the balcony, he heard Ciri’s high laughter and then a sound like a truncheon hitting a tree. Or something akin to it.

Curious, he peered over the railing and saw Ciri, cheeks red and grin as wide as a river, throw a snowball and hit Geralt square in the back of the head.

“Gotcha!” She squealed as he charged at her, arms spread wide to try and grab her. 

Fascinated, he leaned forward to watch. This was a different Geralt, one he’d caught few glimpses of over the years. Maybe it was this place, or his Child Surprise, but he was more open here. Freer. Like the burdens of his life fighting monsters and barely scraping by were lifted and he was able to breathe open air and rid himself of shackles.

Jaskier knew he was a Witcher first and foremost. But something he never dared say to Geralt was that he could be _more_.

 _You could be mine_ . _I know what your life is like, how hard it is. I could be there to give whatever you need when the world takes so much from you._

Jaskier chewed on his lip as he watched the Witcher and his charge circle each other, their breath puffing out in white clouds around their heads. Not surprisingly, Geralt wore little in the way of winter gear; he didn’t need it. But Ciri’s scarf flew behind her like a banner at a faire as she ran, ducked, and dodged Geralt’s massive form. And she was quick, quicker than she had any right to be. 

So absorbed was he in thought he never saw the snowball coming until it hit him square in the face. Spluttering, Jaskier flung snow out of his eyes and stared down at the laughing pair. “Get your coat on and get down here, bard,” Geralt called up to him. “I need a break.”

Jaskier really did try to look indignant at such a command, but Ciri’s sunny expression made it next to impossible. “Fine! But I’ll have you know I don’t like cheaters, so we make it a clean fight.” Quick as a snake, Geralt flung another snowball at him, but Jaskier was ready this time. “You….you ass! I’ll have you know -”

“Come on, Jaskier!” Ciri waved him down. “Or he’s just going to keep throwing snowballs at you.”

With an affectionate grumble, Jaskier bolted back down the hall and to his room. He careened around a corner, grinning, and ran headlong into Leona. 

“And here I thought we were going to have to tell the child not to run through the halls,” she said as she gripped his shoulders, stopping his forward momentum.

Her hands were like iron and he gaped at her. “How….how strong are you? My gods.”

That made her laugh and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief. His mouth really did run away from him at the worst times. “I may have picked up Vesemir a time or two,” she replied, a good-natured spark in her eyes. 

“What, like by the scruff? Like a bitch with her pup?”

Leona snorted. “More in the….fun kind of way.”

Jaskier blinked. “Oh. OH.” He blew out a breath, making the fringe of his hair flap comically. “Should have figured Witchers were kinky like that.”

Leona winked at him conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Vesemir I said anything. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Jaskier gave a little bow, drawing his body out of her grasp with a tinge of regret. “Your secret is mine to keep.”

“Now that you’re here, Jaskier. I’ve a wonder.”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes of course.” He grinned. “Is it about one of my new songs? Because _The Wild, Wandering Way_ does need a bit more work -”

Leona tapped her chin, her gaze suddenly sharp on him. “It’s about you, actually. Geralt mentioned you’re a viscount.”

Jaskier’s face fell. He hated talking about his family. “Ah, hard to avoid but I’ve been trying since I was seventeen so….” He looked rather uncomfortable as he said, “Please don’t tell me this is for some weird noble thing.”

“Nothing of the sort. I apologize for making you uncomfortable. But in for a copper…” And she leaned into him and _sniffed_.

Jaskier froze, eyes wide. “Is it part of vampire society that you just go around sniffing humans?”

“Sorry.” Leona pulled back. “You just don’t smell like any other human I’ve known. Or, not ones that are completely human.”

“Wha - what the devil does that mean?” Jaskier ran a hand down his doublet, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. “Of course I’m human.”

Leona furrowed her brow in thought. “There’s something else there. It’s faint, almost imperceptible.” She cocked her head, a smile of apology on her lips. “I should have gone about this better, but it’s been nagging at me for weeks.”

“Well, I’m assuming if you were going to eat me I’d know by now.” Jaskier’s head was swimming but he knew he was in no danger from the vampire. _But truly, what the fuck?_

“Quite.” Then frustratingly, she fell silent and just stared at him.

Jaskier tapped his foot, hands on his hips, waiting her out. Finally he couldn’t stand her silence any longer. “So are you going to tell me or not? I do have a snowball fight date with a young lady who absolutely does not like to be kept waiting.”

She reached out to him, but hesitated. “Could I have that?”

His hand flew down to the handkerchief in his pocket, its edge barely sticking out. “I suppose, but whatever for?”

“So I don’t have to keep sniffing you. I’m sure you get enough of that from Geralt and I doubt mine is quite as welcome.”

Jaskier, for once, didn’t know what to say. He drew out the handkerchief with a flourish and handed it over. Leona’s fingers brushed the back of his hand for a long moment, then she smiled and said, “My thanks. I’ll let you know when I understand more.”

As she turned to go back down the hall, Jaskier called after her. “Any guesses? I hate being left with a cliffhanger.”

She stopped and seemed to weigh her words before replying. “It’s holly and clear water and a touch of good, solid earth. The last time I smelled anything like that was when I spent a season in the Fae courts. It’s in your blood, Jaskier. Faint, but there.”

* * *

Out of Ciri’s range of hearing, Jaskier pulled Geralt aside. “Do I smell different to you?”

Geralt’s eyebrows flew toward his hairline. “What?”

Jaskier huffed, fists balled on his hips. “I didn’t stutter, Geralt.” And to Geralt’s utter surprise, Jaskier tipped his head back and exposed the long, pale line of his throat. “I need you to sniff me and tell me if there’s anything weird.”

Instead, Geralt pressed the back of his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

“What? No, not at all!” He batted Geralt’s hand away with a huff. “Just….sniff me. It’s by far not the strangest thing I’ve asked you to do.”

“No, that was when you asked me to procure velvet rope and handcuffs in less than a day’s time.”

“Yes, well, I’ll have you know I won that bet and the coin went to procuring us better accommodations and you a fine bath in a tub big enough for your massive bulk.”

“Fine.” _But I’m going to make you feel this_. With a swift yank at the bard’s hips, Geralt pulled Jaskier to him, lowered his head, and inhaled.

Jaskier didn’t have the time or thought to disguise the hitch in his breath at such close contact. Geralt nosed at Jaskier’s neck and when he couldn’t get the angle he wanted, he put one large palm on the back of the other man’s head and guided it to the side. Jaskier let out a breath that sounded like a surprised but delighted, “ _Oh_ ,” as his hands found purchase on Geralt’s waist. 

Geralt couldn’t stop himself. The temptation of Jaskier’s narrow hips under his hand, the soft, thick hair between his fingers - it made him _ache_. “You don’t smell any different to me,” he rumbled against Jaskier’s neck. “Maybe I should double check.”

“Yes, you should….uh, do that,” Jaskier replied, his voice thready with need. 

Technically Geralt was lying. The moment he’d put his hands on the bard, Jaskier’s scent had spiked with lust. It was a molten smell, like cinnamon and ginger roasting over open flame, and it made Geralt’s blood heat. But aside from the scent of a very turned on Jaskier, he didn’t detect anything beyond the normal. 

The way to solve that was simple. Geralt pressed closer, pulling their bodies flush, and licked the side of Jaskier’s neck.

 _Kill me now. Let me die a happy, happy man_. Geralt might as well have lit him on fire. He could feel his face burning, his body responding, and he didn’t care who saw the growing bulge in his trousers. Jaskier was ready to perish in the arms of his Witcher. All he could do was whimper helplessly.

And of course that was the moment Ciri chose to wind her way back to them as Vesemir called after her. “You’re not getting out of training, cub!”

“Not leaving, just finding -“ She stopped short, staring at the bard and the Witcher entwined. Slowly and with careful footing, she backed away and when she was a distance closer to Vesemir, ran before she could be spotted.

But she was giggling and grinning and when Vesemir caught sight of the girl snickering, he shook his head. “Whatever’s gotten into you?” She shrugged, the smile wide on her cherubic face. “Fine, keep your secrets, girl,” Vesemir replied as he tossed her a wooden practice sword.

* * *

“Is that the test?” Jaskier’s voice finally came back after the heat of Geralt’s tongue on his neck faded. “I mean, do I taste -“

Geralt’s steady, even breaths were like a punch to the chest, but what rocked Jaskier back were his words. “You taste like magic.” Geralt sounded, of all things, stunned.

Jaskier reeled back, eyes wide. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Wha...how?”

Geralt shrugged, the mountains of his shoulders bunching, drawing Jaskier’s gaze. He was concerned. But he was also incredibly turned on. “Might need another taste. To check.”

Jaskier was going to _die_. “So you’re just going to lick me to death?”

“Hmmm, not a bad idea.” Geralt put his lips on Jaskier’s ear and said, “You ask a lot of questions, bard.”

Jaskier barely had it in him to scoff. It came out more like a weak puff of air. “When have I not?”

“Another question. The wrong one.”

“What’s the….” Jaskier swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering closed at the touch of Geralt’s mouth on the delicate shell of his ear. “I would like to know the right question, then. If you’ll indulge me.”

“Do more than that to you.”

“Geralt, are you all right? This is highly unusual -“

_I am fine and also an idiot. I should have said something long ago. How crazy you make me. How badly I want you. But I’m going to fix that._

And Geralt bit down on Jaskier’s pulse, sharp teeth sinking into the warm flesh. He soothed the sting with his tongue, saying, “The others will know you’re mine now. Eskel likely had designs on you, and Lambert will fuck almost anything that moves. But you’re _mine_. Only after I’ve made you so am I willing to share.” He lowered his voice, no more than a bare scrape across Jaskier’s ear. “And only if you allow it.”

“Geralt….” Jaskier choked on the Witcher’s name. He was swaying on his feet, balling Geralt’s shirt in his fists like his life depended on it. But he couldn’t spit out the words. And Geralt’s own words, _Only after I’ve made you so am I willing to share….and only if you allow it_ , rang in his ears. He felt lightheaded and too hot under his winter clothes, but _want_ coursed through him, throbbing in all the right/wrong places.

It was like every fevered daydream, every restless night in camp listening to Geralt move and breathe, every time Geralt asked for Jaskier’s strong fingers to dig into his tired muscles...it was always just shy of not enough. He would have easily settled for cuddling in a shared bed and gentle, easy touches that told of an affectionate heart. The slow roll of hips and the sweet slide of sweat-slicked skin, until Geralt was balls deep in him and he begged for every last inch.

But this possessive Geralt, one who growled and sucked and bit on his tender flesh? Jaskier was greedy and wanted it all. Some part of him desired the iron grip around his wrists, hips pinning his to a soft bed, and the rub of stubble against his body. 

“Later,” Geralt said softly in his ear. “And not here.” Finally _finally_ the Witcher peered at his bard, eyes glazed over in an unmistakable haze of lust. “Not the way I wanted you to know, but now you do.”

Jaskier’s head bobbed, too heavy for his neck. _Geralt licked me. Told me he wanted me._ “Later then,” Jaskier whispered, barely able to hear his own words over the wind that whipped by them. 

Geralt watched him walk away on shaky legs, unable to keep the feral grin off his face. After a long moment he walked over to the training yard to find Vesemir, who was putting Ciri through some sword fighting basics. “Leona?” he asked, motioning at the keep behind them.

“Library, probably,” Ciri called back. Her grin quickly morphed into a scowl as Vesemire tapped her practice sword with his.

“Pay attention, cub,” he said, gruff affection in his voice. But Ciric didn’t know him that well yet. Only Geralt heard it, and for the sake of Ciri’s pride, tossed her a wink.

Ciri also hadn’t learned much in the way of subtlety or how good Witcher hearing was. “Did you see them, Uncle Vesemir?”

A _thwack_ , and then, “Who, child? Keep your sword up!”

“Geralt and Jaskier.”

“Hmmm.”

Laughter burst out from Geralt and the sound echoed over snow-covered stone.

* * *

“Abysmal,” Leona muttered as she stacked more loose pages on the wide, low oak table behind her. “Absolutely abysmal.”

Dust floated around her, swirling in a slow dance between beams of weak sunlight. But Leona was too preoccupied to notice. The library of Kaer Morhen, once a jewel, was in a state of disappointing, almost sad, disarray. What was cared for was evident; there were tightly organized and labeled shelves, each row of oiled leather covers gleaming. That was obviously Vesemir’s work, both a point of pride and something to preoccupy himself during long winter months while his Wolves hunted and caroused.

But there were stacks upon stacks of loose pages and folios, rolls of hand-drawn maps, and various notes on beasts and entities beyond full Witcher understanding. And before winter was through, she was going to catalog and file all of it, so Vesemir would never have to worry.

But because she hadn’t been to Kaer Morhen in decades, she was also curious. The best libraries had rare or obscure books tucked away in some shadowy, cobweb-stricken corner, and she wanted to know what this one hid. What secrets it held close. With any luck, some of those secrets would be helpful in working with Ciri.

The question of the girl lingered, had ever since Vesemir had written her. Magical children were not unheard of, but one of Elder blood? Had it been anyone other than a Witcher, she would have scoffed. But once Vesemir had provided the details of Ciri’s bloodline and family, it made much more sense. Magic did still present on the matrilineal side, passing from daughter to daughter, occasionally skipping a generation or two. Boys with magic were far less rare now, but it was not always so.

The story went that in the old times, magic was solely in the keeping of women, and it chafed at the men that they had so little power. So in the traditional of egotistical men everywhere, they set their best scholars on the problem, discovering the secrets of blood and the magic trapped therein. After the Conjunction of Spheres, magical women were seen as heroes, and that wouldn’t stand any longer. They stole magic from women, and since then have controlled it with fist and fire and machines of war. There were sorceresses, but those women gave up something valuable to gain their powers. The men didn’t have to make such choices. Any male child with an ounce of promise was sent to Aretuza to be trained and taught and coddled. 

Men relied on the short memories of humans and their keen knack for petty wars, but they often forgot that creatures like her existed - ones with rather **_long_ **memories and capable of harboring the most exquisite of grudges. Even the sorceresses were often too wrapped up in their own affairs to help bring magic back in line with female power. The world spun on its axis, Men fought, and magical immortals squabbled and jockeyed for power in kingdoms that rarely lasted more than a generation or two.

The one place Men never could control was the Fae court. That magic was forbidden and dangerous, or so the stories went. But none of that stopped Fae and humans from falling in love and having children. Jaskier might have human parents, but somewhere in his line was a touch of Fae blood. And having heard him sing and play, Leona fully believed that, if not for that very blood, he likely would have been a sorcerer. Every song of his had a touch of magic inside each perfect, beautiful note.

And magic, like lineage, lives in the blood, detectable only a handful of ways.

She shuffled more papers around with a sigh, resigning herself to needing to begin somewhere amidst the mess. 

“You might want to open a window.”

“A bit cold even for me, Geralt.” She smiled at him. “Besides, one good breeze would send all this flying and then I’ll never get anything done out of sheer spite.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “I really hope you’re not here for a book. I’ve already made a right mess of the place, and I don’t need you Witchers poking about the tomes.”

That got a small laugh out of him. “Never been fond of poking tomes, as it were.”

“Color me relieved.”

“I’ve a curiosity.” He walked toward her slowly, fingers tracing over the oak table between them. “Something you told Jaskier earlier.”

“Ah, yes. I wondered how long it would take before he said something to you. Clearly not long at all.”

Geralt came around the table then, confusion on his face. “He didn’t say anything specific. He didn’t need to. Jaskier’s been around Witchers and all manner of creatures, but only one can smell what’s in a human’s blood. And you can smell Ciri’s magic.”

Leona cocked her head and waited. By the time he was done advancing on her, they were inches apart. “And yet you sound like you have a question to ask,” she replied.

She was a half a head shorter than he, but being this close to a creature of her power and age made his skin hum. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it did unnerve. “He asked me if he smelled differently. He doesn’t. But he tastes like magic.”

One dark brow arched up. “You….tasted him?”

Geralt huffed, his posture slumping a bit. “He asked me to. I didn’t bite him.” At the look of sheer incredulity on Leona’s face, he quickly said, “I didn’t bite him hard. But when I licked him -“

“You _licked_ him.”

“Would you stop repeating everything I say?” After a quiet moment, Geralt continued. “He tastes like magic. Old magic. Faint but there, under his skin.”

“In his blood,” Leona finished. “Yes. And since you now have that taste, you may be able to scent Jaskier more accurately.” With a gentle squeeze to his arm, Leona stepped around him and over to a stack of papers she’d been going through. “I dug up everything the library had on blood magic. Lots of nonsense about Men and the Conjunction of Spheres, but I did find this.” She brandished a slim leather journal at him. “It’s from when Witcher Rennes spent time in the Fae courts. One of the Skellige kings sent him to be an Envoy, and he enjoyed it there so much that he stayed long past his assignment, and then visited whenever he could.” 

She flipped through the old pages, landing on a section and handing it to Geralt. “He witnessed a ritual between a Fae princess and her human male lover. There’s a lengthy description in absolutely droll prose but what he saw bound the princess and the human together. First in marriage, and then by blood, ensuring that any child of their union, including the one already growing inside her, would carry both human and Fae genetics.” 

“The Oath of Blood and Blossom,” Geralt read aloud. 

“Just so. I’d heard of it before, but the Summer Court I stayed at wasn’t as forgiving of fae and human relations. But the Winter and Spring ones continue to be, at least to my knowledge.” She put her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Your bard has Fae in him, Geralt. Just a touch. Somewhere in his family line a human ancestor bound themself, and all future generations, to a Fae. Because he doesn’t have some of the aesthetics, it’s likely only a very tiny part of him. Just enough to let him charm and flirt and entertain with ease.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Geralt said, warmth in his voice. “It’d be a horrible blow to his ego.”

She smiled. “If anyone can cushion that blow, it would be you, White One.”

* * *

_Fae?_

_FAE?_

_Jaskier, refocus._

_Geralt licked you. BIT you. Made some rumblings about claiming you. Oh, yes, and then sharing you with others if you agreed to it._

And having gone through all that in his head, the only thing he said out loud was, “I’m going to get fucked by a Witcher.”


	5. The Needs of Witchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Lambert’s a horny (but not totally inept) bastard, Geralt and Jaskier tease, and Leona considers taking on two Witchers at once.
> 
> Basically everyone’s horny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated to account for sexy bits I wasn't expecting to happen.

_That night_

As the sun set over the western wall of Kaer Morhen, three Witchers were finishing up the day’s work with no words between them. Most Witchers were a notoriously silent kind, and Geralt was known for his lack of loquaciousness. If asked a direct question he would answer, often with no more than a grunt or monosyllabic word. And he was always - always - mum on the most personal of details.

Except with a certain bard and his brothers.

So when Eskel asked him, “What’s with you and the bard?”, Geralt was tempted to answer. A quick look at Eskel’s scarred face detected nothing but honest curiosity. 

Geralt ran the brush down Roach’s flank for several strokes before answering. “What do you mean?”

Eskel snorted and his horse wickered at him in response. “He’s done nothing but walk around in a daze all afternoon. And he smells like you.”

Geralt grunted. “He probably always smells like me. We travel together.”

The sound of a slap came from behind Geralt. He turned to see Lambert pulling his palm away from his forehead. “Fuck, Geralt. I knew you were dense, but I didn’t know you were a liar, too.”

“Fuck you, Lambert.”

“No, _fuck you_.”

Eskel just laughed at them. “Well if you don’t want asked, maybe don’t scent and bite him in the courtyard for your cub to witness and then blab to Vesemir.”

That drew a grumble from Geralt, the sound of annoyance and fondness wrapped up together. “Damn kid,” he muttered. Roach moved her head to nibble at his sleeve and he patted her nose. “I didn’t mean it, Roach.”

Silence fell around them again, until Lambert had enough. “So, only _your_ bard?”

“Fuck, Lambert, really?” Geralt whirled on him. “I’m starting to think you take our jokes about you fucking anything that moves seriously. Trying to change your career path?”

Lambert held up his hands. “Ooo, touchy.” He leaned in, grin wide. “But seriously. Why haven’t you fucked him yet? He’s got a perfect ass.”

Geralt bit his tongue so he wouldn’t chuck a bucket at Lambert’s head. “He’s mine. Jaskier’s his own man, but he let me claim him. It’s his call whether he wants to be shared or not.” And with that out in the open, Geralt shot him a smirk. “If you’re looking for action, ask Leona. I’ve heard she likes tossing Witchers around.”

Lambert paled. “She scares the fuck outta me. Have you seen her teeth?”

That got a laugh out of both his brothers. Eskel had to rest his head on his horse as he guffawed. “You’re an idiot, Lambert. You talk a big game, but you’re scared of one vampire? That doesn’t make any damn sense.”

“Yeah well…” Lambert trailed off, eyes now fixed on his horse. “I mean...you think she would?”

Confusion furrowed Eskel’s brow. “Would what?”

“I don’t know! Maybe entertain the idea?”

“You and her?”

Lambert threw the brush into a nearby pail. “What’s so weird about that? She’s smart, discerning, and probably seen weirder shit than a Witcher asking for her attentions. I’m the best looking out of all of us. Just makes sense.”

Geralt’s shoulders were shaking by now; the sheer force of him holding back a fully-throated belly laugh barely contained. “She traveled with Vesemir for _decades_ , Lambert. They had a fling.”

“Or several,” Eskel added as he slipped Scorpion a carrot. “She’s no stranger to Witchers.”

“Indeed I am not.”

Lambert’s eyes went wide as Leona stepped behind him, silent as the grave and smelling like old books and animal blood. Even from across the stable, Eskel and Geralt could smell her; Geralt felt his gut twist at the raw, primal scent. One look at his brothers’ faces said they felt something similar.

Leona put a hand on Lambert’s shoulder, slipping around him to stare at the younger Witcher. “I am, however, more discerning in my old age. Which is what I assume you were trying to say moments ago.”

Lambert’s throat clicked as he swallowed. She was _very_ close and it made his skin thrum. Her big, brown, supernatural eyes peered closely at him and he felt naked up against the wall of her gaze. “Eavesdropping on us? Seems not very ladylike.”

“But I’m not a lady.”

“No argument there,” Eskel muttered, making Leona laugh.

“I’m so ridiculously fond of you Witchers, I find it hard to stay away.” Delicately, she traced the creases in the worn leather coat Lambert wore. Geralt gave Eskel a knowing look as they both watched Lambert freeze in place. “And as much as I would love to stand out in the freezing cold and bandy about with you all, Vesemir sent me to fetch you for dinner.” 

And just as silently as she appeared, Leona sped off, a blur of black and green against the oncoming nightfall.

“Uhnnn,” Lambert groaned, leaning against his horse. “I fucked that up, didn’t I?”

Geralt shrugged. “Little bit.”

“Yep,” Eskel added, coming to his brother’s side. “But I’d take it as a compliment. She doesn’t tease me like that.”

“You’d make a better snack than Lambert,” Geralt threw out, slapping Eskel on the back. “Maybe all those scars would be good for something.”

Lambert snickered and curled his hands into claws. “All the better to hold onto you with.”

“Shut up.” Eskel booted Lambert in the ass and the younger Witcher took off laughing. Once he was gone, Eskel turned to Geralt. “So, you and the bard.”

“Yeah?”

He slung an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. “Good for you. Just remember, he’s human. Don’t play too rough.”

Geralt groaned.  
  


* * *

Jaskier was already seated across from Leona and Vesemir as the Witchers entered the grand hall. But everyone had switched seats around, which was not entirely unusual. What was odd was that Geralt’s chair was rather close to Jaskier’s.

Several inches closer than normal, in fact. They’d be almost sitting on top of each other. 

He raised an eyebrow at the mischievous grin on Ciri’s face and shook his head. _You’re in trouble_ he mouthed at her, but she just laughed and turned her attention back to Vesemir and Leona.

The familiar footfall behind Jaskier made him sit up a little straighter and fuss with his collar. Geralt couldn’t see what exactly the bard was doing. He took his seat and looked over at Jaskier. 

It was a mistake.

Jaskier hadn’t been smoothing down his clothes or adjusting the flap of his collar _up_. He’d pushed it down. The bite mark Geralt had left on his long, pale neck was visible for all to see. Proudly displayed with no embarrassment.

_Yours_

A hot rush of lust swept over him and he sank into the chair next to Jaskier. If his hand brushed up against the other man’s thigh, Jaskier made no evident display of noticing. But the scent of cinnamon and ginger hit Geralt’s nose; and if he smelled it, everyone in the room but Ciri did as well.

 _No hiding now_ , he thought. _Not that I wanted to._

Perhaps it was to give Jaskier and Geralt a faint sense of privacy, but no one able to detect the spike in Jaskier’s scent said anything or even smirked at the pair. Lambert, for all his bravado, was wholly occupied telling Leona and Ciri stories from his travels on The Path, leaving Eskel and Vesemir to add in colorful commentary. 

Lambert was on his third story (this one involving an ever-escalating level of nudity and him climbing bare-assed out the window of an inn) when Jaskier finished his meal and pushed his plate away, groaning happily. “Vesemir, you outdo yourself with every meal.”

Vesemir grunted. “It’s just chicken, boy.”

Jaskier grinned. “And yet, the best chicken I’ve had in ages.” He glanced over at Geralt, who was tucked into his fourth cup of wine and no worse the wear for it. It was notoriously hard to get Witchers drunk. “You’re rather quiet tonight, Geralt,” he said softly.

Geralt didn’t even look his way. “Am I?”

Jaskier swallowed hard. Geralt caught the scent of worry - sour citrus and dead leaves - suffuse through him. “Are we...I mean...has something changed since this morning?”

And as Geralt was a man of action and few words, he sought to assuage Jaskier’s worry in the most efficient way possible. With a degree of ease and stealth few men of Geralt’s size could manage, he slipped his hand under the table and grabbed Jaskier’s thigh. 

Jaskier inhaled sharply once, then again as Geralt squeezed, his fingers wrapped around the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, brushing perilously close to a much more delicate area. “Not a thing,” Geralt replied. “If anything, I need _more_.”

Jaskier blinked rapidly, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. Geralt’s hand was an iron brand on his leg, fingers digging in possessively but not painfully.

A reminder of Geralt’s promise and his desire.

“Do you think we should maybe…?” Jaskier’s eyes flicked to the stairs leading to their rooms.

“No.” Geralt let up the pressure on Jaskier’s thigh but kept his hand there. “Not unless you don’t want to hear the end of it for weeks.”

“I think the teasing will happen whether we leave dinner early or not,” Jaskier bit out under his breath, trying so desperately not to buck into Geralt’s touch. “Or do you mean to tease me all night?”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh gods,” Jaskier groaned. Geralt truly meant to bring him to the edge of a cliff with just a touch. There was no way he was getting up from the table, not with the distinct ridge of his erection straining against his pants. “Are you trying to kill me?” he muttered to Geralt through gritted teeth. Geralt just hummed in response and took another sip of wine. “Gods save me from frustrating Witchers,” Jaskier bit out.

Geralt only responded with another squeeze to his thigh. Jaskier’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head and he so badly wanted to tackle Geralt to the floor and rip his clothes off. _Patience is a virtue, but I’m an inch away from wanking myself off at the Witchers’ dinner table_.

The other conversation happening around the table was only interrupted when Lambert and Eskel stopped sniping at each other and exchanged a glance. Vesemir kept right on eating like nothing had happened. And Leona caught Lambert’s eye and grinned. “I had no idea,” Leona murmured in Lambert’s ear.

“About what?” He wasn’t as subtle but kept his voice down so Ciri wouldn't overhear.

“I mean, having been on the receiving end of a Witcher’s attention, I’m aware of their….prowess,” she purred. “But whatever is happening over there is driving Jaskier to the edge and I admit I am curious.”

Lambert scoffed. “Geralt’s probably just got his hand down the bard’s pants.” He grinned, sharp and feral and Leona could smell his interest immediately. “Used to make a game of it. On the nights when Vesemir took the younger boys out to hunt or train, he’d leave Geralt and a couple of the older ones in charge. They’d make bets on who would be playing handsy under the table and whoever won got the night off dish-washing duty.”

Leona snorted. “A bunch of hormonal teenage boys left alone with nothing better to do?” She eyed the room and tried not to laugh. “The stuff of nightmares, surely.”

“You have no idea. We used to call it pranks and wanks night.”

 _That_ made Leona cackle. “Well that’s something I can never unhear,” she said between snickers. Once she calmed, she turned in her chair to face him, one of her boots knocking into his. “So I’m assuming you took part in all this?”

Lambert shrugged. “Like you said, a bunch of teenage boys hopped up on hormones tend to cause mischief.”

“Indeed.” She leaned in to retrace the worn, cracked leather on his arm. “Did you have a favorite?”

That brought Lambert up short. “A favorite...I mean, there were - shit.” He froze as Eskel leaned forward to put his chin on his brother’s shoulder. 

“I see.” Leona nodded knowingly.

“Now, wait. It wasn’t like that.”

“Aw Lambert, that hurts,” Eskel said. “I really did think I was your favorite.”

“Fuck, Eskel, come _on_.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I must know,” Leona said, her gaze sharp on them. “All of you? Really? How interesting.”

Lambert let her question go unanswered. He was too busy watching Geralt’s forearm tense with motion hidden by the wide table. With a nudge from his elbow, Eskel saw it too; he leaned forward, eyes narrowed in undisguised interest.

On the other side of the table, Vesemir was bustling Ciri off to bed, shooting everyone else a warning glance. Ciri protested but Vesemir wouldn’t be swayed, and they both disappeared up the stairs with haste.

“And now I’m left in a room full of men who stink like pheromones,” Leona drawled, poking Lambert playfully in the shoulder. “I suppose I should take my leave.” She aimed a precise look at Geralt and a very red-faced Jaskier.. “But might I suggest taking any strenuous activities to your rooms. I’m assuming one room is big enough for the four of you.”

The only one who didn’t stare slack-jawed at her was Geralt. He chuckled and waved a hand in her direction. “I think if the four of us stayed down here, we’d break every piece of furniture. Wolves tend to play rough.”

The look of sheer panic on Jaskier’s face was undercut by what everyone else in the room could smell. _Desire_. Bold and bright and smoky and spiraling higher and higher, like he’d been doused in it.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. 

Without a word, Geralt grabbed his bard’s hand and pulled him away, leaving two Witchers and a vampire to watch them go.

Lambert turned to Eskel and Leona, his own scent now peppered with blatant interest. Leona liked how they both smelled - each unique, but clearly Witcher. The mutations left an unmistakable smell of forest and resin, marred by magic and ozone. She curled against Lambert’s back and held out a hand to Eskel. “I suppose when one winters at a Witcher fortress, certain activities are less frowned upon.”

Eskel took her hand eagerly, his scarred lips brushing her knuckles. “Still scared of her, Lambert?”

The nearness of the vampire made Lambert shiver, but not in fear. In _anticipation_. “Ground rules,” he said roughly. “No biting unless we ask.”

“Oh, I’m asking,” Eskel shot back, grin wide and predatory.

“Maybe we start there until you’re sure you want to join us,” Leona growled in his ear, fingers digging into his shoulder.


	6. Interlude: A Broken, Fucked-Up Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the tease. I’ll make good on it, promise.
> 
> Remember, consent is sexy.

Geralt let Jaskier lead him up the stairs, his hand clenching around Geralt’s. “Slow down, Jas,” Geralt said softly. “We’ve got all night. All winter.”

Jaskier scoffed but didn’t stop and didn’t turn around. “Absolutely not. I’ve pined after you for _years_ , Geralt. _Years!_ And then today you sniff me and lick me and bite me and practically put your hand down my pants and you expect me to _take it slow_?”

Jaskier burst through the door to Geralt’s room and began tugging the Witcher over to the bed. Very calmly (more calmly than he felt), Geralt shut the door and yanked Jaskier back against him. The bard hit with a soft _oof_ as he collided with Geralt’s warm, hard body.

“Is this part of Witcher mating customs or something?” Jaskier asked in a thin voice. His ass - actually his everything - was pressed firmly up against Geralt. And speaking of Geralt, his hands were on Jaskier’s hips on the right side of _too tight_ and Jaskier groaned. 

Because they were of a similar height, Geralt barely had to bend his head to brush his lips over Jaskier’s ear. “Do you want it to be?”

“Ughhh, Geralt, _please.”_ The velvety, rib-rattling chuckle he got in response made Jaskier’s knees buckle.

With impossibly gentle hands, Geralt turned Jaskier by the hips so they were face-to-face. So close, and yet not enough. Jaskier was flushed and glassy-eyed and so perfect Geralt felt something tighten in his gut at the sight. “We do this right, or not at all.”

Jaskier surged into the kiss, hungry and wanting and clutching at Geralt’s shirt like a drowning man. His fingers trembled but his tongue was sure, quick. Geralt grunted in surprise at the way Jaskier licked at the seam of his lips, his own fingers tightening their grip. There was something delicate about Jaskier’s narrow hips, almost bird-like. Strong, capable of immense speed and flexibility, but also fragile.

 _Don’t think about flexibility right now_ , Geralt chided himself. He refocused on the kiss and the way Jaskier’s tongue tasted.

He let Jaskier plunder and delve, turning something worthy of a ballad into filthy pornography. Jaskier was a moaning mess in his arms and Geralt was close to tossing the bard on the bed and sucking his way down that perfect freckled chest. But he wanted to let Jaskier lead - at least until he couldn’t.

They hadn’t broached it yet, but Geralt enjoyed following a lover’s instruction. The rise he got out of putting instruction into action and letting a lover rush headlong into pleasure at his hands, his mouth, his cock...it was exquisite. “Tell me what you need,” he whispered against Jaskier’s mouth.

“ _You_.” Jaskier didn’t wait, didn’t linger, just pushed into another kiss while he shoved the hem of Geralt’s shirt up, fingers seeking. The brush of lute-calloused fingertips on his scarred skin made Geralt hiss. It was now a point of pride for Jaskier that he made Geralt of Rivia, famed Witcher and slayer of beasts, buck into such a simple, honest touch. “Off,” he demanded, tugging Geralt’s shirt up so he could touch more skin.

The shirt was gone in a flash, just a flutter of black linen tossed into some corner of the room. “I’m going to lick every inch of you,” Jaskier breathed, his voice nearly as strained as his pants. “My gods you’re gorgeous.”

Geralt had hoped for this. Hoped that chatty, mouthy, nonstop mouth-moving Jaskier, who talked _all the goddammn_ time, would talk when he was kissing and touching Geralt. Would talk in bed and make it dirty; say beautiful, wretched, rotten, obscene things about _Geralt’s cock_ and _his pretty pink hole_ and beg for Geralt to be _balls deep_ . Beg for his _mouth_ , beg for his _body_ , beg for his _fingers_ and _spit_ and _come_ . Beg to be _licked_ and _sucked_ and _stretched_ until his eyes rolled back and he came in Geralt’s ass. Or let Geralt come in his ass.

Jaskier was panting, sweating, shaking with need. He practically burned with it, lighting every nerve on fire. It snaked down his spine to wrap around and squeeze tight. 

“You gonna stand there and stare, or do I have to drag you to the bed?”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. “You tease. You utter _tease_ . Why didn’t you just ask?” Jaskier put his hands on his hips and adopted a dour expression. “ _Jaskier, I want you to fucking take me to bed now._ ”

Geralt had to acknowledge that the bard did a fairly decent impression of his own growling baritone. Despite himself and the lust nearly making his eyes cross, Geralt laughed. But within seconds the laugh was gone, replaced by a stillness Jaskier had experienced over many years watching Geralt stalk prey.

Except now he was the prey. The meal laid out before a starving Witcher who wanted nothing more than to touch every inch of his bard’s body.

Geralt rushed him and Jaskier yelped, laughing, as Geralt tackled him to the bed. The kiss was ruthless. Crushing. Consuming. But the Witcher’s hands were soft in their questing, gentle with the silk and buttons and embroidery Jaskier loved so much.

Doublet tossed safely away, boots pulled off and placed by the bed, Geralt straightened to lean over Jaskier’s prone form. He put his weight on his hands so he could loom over the bard, curtain of white hair falling in his face. He already looked debauched; lips swollen and red, eyes blown open with lust, heavy medallion resting on his bare chest.

“Not a song about this, bard,” Geralt teased, thumbing at the waistline of Jaskier’s tight pants. 

“Not a note,” Jaskier promised, eyes wide as the promise of Geralt’s body over his made him shiver. “Though songs about Geralt of Rivia’s prowess in bed would make us _so much money_.”

“Bard,” Geralt growled, putting a little more bite into his voice. He watched Jaskier grin, let him grab at the hips and pull Geralt down so their bodies touched.

“Witcher,” Jaskier teased, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Geralt bent to nose at the spot under his ear, inhaling. Jaskier’s scent - better than any perfume - lingered in his nose and on his tastebuds. “I’m assuming you’ve done this before?” he asked teasingly, sliding one knee between Jaskier’s thighs.

“Been bedded by a Witcher? Nothing quite so exciting.”

Geralt bit the soft skin below the spot already bruising. “Been fucked by a man before,” he growled, sliding his knee higher. Pressing in just the right spot. He watched Jaskier’s chest rise, his breath stuttering, and those glorious freckles on his shoulders and collarbone move with him.

“Ah - ah, oh _gods_ ,” Jaskier said, rocking into the touch, seeking friction. Back bowed, mouth open, he was a sinful painting made of flesh and bone and bright blue eyes and wild brown hair. His gorgeous mouth was open in a gasp and Geralt bent to taste his lips again, tongue teasing.

Once they broke apart, leaving Jaskier panting, Geralt caught his wrists, circling them with his own hands, and slowly raised Jaskier’s arms over his head. “I will never hurt you,” he purred. “And you tell me to stop at any point. Just pick a word, say it, and we stop.”

Jaskier shook his head, bangs flying in his face. “Nononono, never would ask you to stop.”

“Jas, you say that now. But I don’t want to -” Geralt looked away, the words suddenly stuck in his throat. 

A gentle hand turned his face so Jaskier could look up at him. “I understand.” And then he _winked_. “Witcher stamina and all that.” Geralt wasn’t about to go into a debate about what the mutations had done to his body; Jaskier had seen him fight enough to know how strong, how fast Geralt was.

And in bed, what mattered was Jaskier’s pleasure. Geralt had caught the way his breath had hitched when he’d teased about sharing the bard and sharing a bed with him and others. Had seen the little looks he’d given the other Witchers, that blatant stare born of curiosity and interest. And he knew Jaskier’s tastes typically ran to women, but he also knew there had been men. It was easy to smell the difference, observe the slight cant to his walk from trysts with men versus the swagger in his step after bedding a woman.

When pleasure was to be had, Geralt wasn’t picky. Or, hadn’t been, until a mouthy bard rolled into his life with bread down his pants and a willingness to rush headlong into danger beside, of all people, a fucking Witcher.

“Buttercup,” Jaskier said suddenly. 

Geralt frowned. “What?”

“My word! It’s buttercup. Something I would never, ever say in any company.” He grinned cheekily. “Unless you have some deep burning desire to be called such, that is.”

“Not with my last breath,” Geralt growled, letting his weight pin Jaskier to the bed. Jaskier groaned, thrusting up against Geralt with desire etched on his face. “Now, you never answered my question.”

“You know I have, Geralt,” Jaskier replied, voice reedy. “You know I’ve fucked men. I know you could smell it on me when I did.” He surged up again, brushing his lips over the Witcher’s. “Only ever wanted you. Everything else was just -”

“Scratching an itch?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier moved his arms, testing the give of Geralt’s grip. His expression grew cunning. “You like me like this, don’t you? Pinned down by your hands and your body, desperate for your touch. Ready to burst at the seams.” 

_Fuck yes._ He almost said it out loud, but was unwilling to let Jaskier know quite so early in their bedsport. _Fuck, Jas, please talk dirty to me. Don’t stop._

Sensing his words were working, Jaskier dropped his voice, drawing closer to the man keeping him pinned to the mattress. “You want me to beg for it? Beg for you?”

Geralt groaned, a broken, fucked-up sound that made Jaskier whimper. “Yes,” he said, letting go of Jaskier’s hands so he could grip the other man’s head, fingers scratching at his scalp, and steal another desperate kiss. It had heat and teeth. It devoured and raged and tore and Jaskier only wanted to tell his Witcher _moremoremore_.

For all the lovely notes he’d ever played and all the aching harmonies he’d ever heard, Jaskier knew he’d found his favorite sound in the entire world. That broken, ragged, needy groan from the chest of one Geralt of Rivia.


	7. Interlude 2: The Capacity and Willingness for Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel, Lambert, and Leona negotiate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look, more smut! Or at least a taste. It’s also the beginning of strangely gentle smut, considering this is two Witchers and a high vampire. 
> 
> Next up will be full chapters so hope y’all are thirsty....

There was a hand on his ass, another in his hair, and a pair of delicate feminine lips plundering his. Eskel didn’t spare the fate of his shirt or belt a second thought. He didn’t even _really_ remember how quickly the three of them got to Leona’s room. Chances were they’d find his shirt and belt in the morning ….not that it mattered.

The hand on his ass dug in sharp nails, and the one in his hair pulled - tight, but not too much. Enough to make him swallow a groan. 

“Fuck,” Lambert said from somewhere near his right arm. “Shit that’s pretty. Leona, make him make that noise again.” 

Leona wrenched her mouth away from Eskel’s, eyes glittering in the firelight. “Do you need more encouragement to sing for me, darling?”

 _Fuck that should not be that hot_. Eskel caught a flash of her fangs and groaned, much to her and Lambert’s delight. There was a soft rustle of fabric and he saw long lines of muscle and skin in his periphery. “Not real big into spectator sports,” Lambert growled as he circled them, coming to rest behind Leona.

“You know, vampires don’t actually have blind spots,” she said softly, leaning back against his warmth.

“Really?” Lambert ran a finger over the side of her neck. 

“Blood, dear. That’s all we need.”

That made the back of his neck twitch. As much as his dick was doing the thinking right now, Witcher senses weren’t something you could just shut off. You could dull them with drink or sex but they were always there, waiting.

Eskel tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her. Lambert followed, and Leona was properly squished between two Witchers, both at least a head taller and several stone heavier than her. 

She was still stronger.

“Last chance to change your minds,” she teased. “I’m old enough to be your ancestor.”

Lambert laughed, slipping an arm around her ribs to rest his hand over the spot where her heart would be, if she had one. “Experienced women are _sexy_ ,” he growled, laying his palm flat on her chest. 

His wrist brushed the top of her breast, drawing Eskel’s gaze and making him grin. “Yeah I’m with Lambert on that one,” he replied, voice deepening into a rumble. His scarred, handsome face contorted as he said, “Do you need…”

She shook her head. “I know you offered, but no. I’m more than _satisfied_. At least in that regard.” And she yanked on the waist of his trousers, earning a groan from both men.

Eskel thrust against her, skin heating at the implication in her voice. “And if I offered again?”

Leona bit her lip, carefully hiding her fangs. “In the height of the moment, offering me blood is more….tricky. I won’t take more than what you’re willing to give but I don’t want you to fear me. But a bite upon climax is, I’m told, a singular sensation.”

She was being very careful with her wording, something both Witchers noticed. Were she not a high vampire, were she not several centuries old and a proven ally to the Witchers, they would worry. Any vampire, no matter the age or level of control, could lose their minds and rampage across villages and towns, leaving nothing in their wake but exsanguinated bodies and the stench of fear.

Witchers and creatures like her were kin, in some ways. Higher vampires could easily live for centuries, even thousands of years - if they were careful and controlled. Witchers were killed by fang or claw or poison; their own bodies, while mutated and far stronger than any human’s, were still susceptible to the conditions and foibles that could put down anyone with blood coursing through their veins. But they understood their own powers, and their responsibilities. Anyone who had to live amongst humans and deal with their finicky natures needed to hold this knowledge.

Leona loved humans and their strangeness, their fragile bodies; because they loved and hated with such passion and intensity, she could borrow it for a time. Convince herself she was one of them and drown in the avalanche of their feelings. Her mind flitted to Jaskier for a moment, recalling the lilt of his voice as he sang in the main hall, loving the acoustics of the fortress. Remembering his fond glances at the White Wolf, and the way his blood thrummed under his skin when she was near.

Lambert’s touch, now gently toying with her collar, drew her out of her thoughts. “Still gonna offer?” he asked Eskel before bending his neck to nose behind Leona’s ear. He had to stifle a groan - she smelled like cedar and leather and something soft under that, like honeysuckle. Even though it was winter and nothing bloomed save winter cabbages. 

“Yeah, I want to,” Eskel murmured, wrapping his arms around them both, his hands tugging at the laces on Lambert’s pants. “I want to know. Want to feel it.”

If Leona had blood in her body, it would have spiked with adrenaline. A Witcher’s blood was a rare treat, and when offered so freely….

How could she refuse?

“I’ll warn you before,” she said, voice husky with desire. “It’s the final chance to say no, to push me away. Once I have you, I won’t want to let go until you tell me to.”

“I trust you,” Eskel said against the shell of her ear, deft fingers now undoing the buttons on her jacket. “Don’t want you to think in the moment. Just feel.”

Leona sagged against him, overcome. These Witchers were going to undo her.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, arching up into Eskel’s touch as she grabbed at Lambert behind her. “Someone kiss me. I’ll go mad without it.”

“You heard the lady,” Lambert murmured before shooting a grin over at Eskel.

“Fuck you smell so good.” Eskel was barely holding back now, desperate to run his hands over both of them. He knew Lambert’s body almost as well as his own. Lambert had been barely eighteen and the last surviving recruit, but Eskel had seen the looks shot his way. Between bouts of relentless training and long nights spent drinking, it was all undercut by hormones. Dozens of young, strapping men in their prime, Witchers all, bounced between partners like dancers at a ball. But everyone had their favorites. 

That first time, Lambert had waited until Vesemir had retired before shoving Eskel against his bedroom door, yanking his pants to the cold stone floor, and sinking to his knees. It was quick and dirty and while Eskel wasn’t against such couplings, he did have a romantic streak in him. After he’d shot down Lambert’s throat, groaning and shaking, he pulled the younger Witcher to his feet, only to push him down to the bed. “Now I’m gonna fuck you,” he’d purred in Lambert’s ear, taking particular delight in the other Witcher’s groan and thrusting hips.

No matter who either partnered with, they always wound up back in one of their beds. Nights were spent mapping the growing collections of scars and nicks, the planes of muscle, and the swirls of hair that led to delightful places. They were brothers in arms, Witchers both, but a bond was formed on those nights, stronger than any blood relation. 

And now they were sharing a vampire’s touches _together_. Eskel kissed her, softly at first, matching the gentle way Lambert mouthed at the side of her neck. He’d half expected her to maintain that unnatural stillness she and her kind possessed, but whether it was for their benefit or not, she was moving against him. Pressing. Touching. Seeking. A purr, like that of a large cat, was building in the base of her throat, making their bodies hum with it.

“I think she likes it,” Lambert said, tongue flicking out to taste her. Leona groaned, torn between pushing back against him or into Eskel. 

“Are we planning on moving to my bed at some point, or are you both going to make the attempt at one of my favorite maneuvers?” 

Leona knew she was baiting them, and from the look on both their faces as she ducked under their arms to tug them both over to the gigantic four-poster bed, they knew it too. But they also couldn’t douse the flames of their curiosity.

“And that would be…” Lambert asked leadingly, the smirk on his face oh so telling.

“With two strapping Witchers at my disposal, I’m sure you can figure out the...mechanics. I do have both capacity and willingness to take you both at the same time.”

“Fuck,” Eskel whispered.

“Seconded,” Lambert said, voice gone hoarse with recognition.


	8. Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier finally entwine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some sappy, smutty smut!

Geralt had never been shy about his body. Being raised in an old fortress full of Witchers and trainees, where grown men walked around shirtless half the time and the baths were communal (though adults and teenagers were separated; they were Witchers, not perverts), meant learning that one’s body was a tool, designed for fighting. Scars were badges of honor and courage, each one attached to a story fueled by the flash of fangs or claws and the sounds of ripping skin and the screams of monsters. 

If you had scars, that meant you were a survivor. Every Witcher knew their life could end with one wrong step, one missed parry. And every winter that passed meant the stakes were raised of a familiar face never again appearing in the courtyard, their memory haunting the grounds as the survivors prepared that year’s memorial pyre.

But slowly, because of the warm palms and trembling fingers of his bard, he was learning his body was for more. It wasn’t just pumping arms and striding legs as he traipsed through a murky swamp or dank cave, silver sword flashing its wicked edge. And it wasn’t just a thing that required fuel and rest and, on occasion, pleasure, to continue to operate. His body was not something his mind simply controlled, obeying orders.

It could be teased and touched. He could allow it to be worshipped by a reverent tongue and gliding fingertips. It could burn and shake and quiver for just the right person.

Geralt lay beneath that person - that man - now, desperate for _more_ and willing to do whatever it took for one more kiss, one more caress.

Jaskier was mouthing down his chest, all wet lips and hot breath and needy little groans of pleasure. The bard’s fingers clutched at Geralt’s smallclothes, skimmed down his thighs and then back up, tangling in the coarse hair on his legs and chest. And every now and again, Jaskier would look up at him, mouth still affixed on his body, and those blue eyes would shine with pleasure and joy.

In short, he was driving Geralt _mad_.

“Come here,” he grunted, hauling Jaskier up to ravage his mouth. Jaskier didn’t even have time to squeak in surprise before he was being rolled beneath the Witcher, whose thrusting hips pinned him to the mattress.

“Fuck, Geralt!” he protested, scrambling to grab onto something against the punishing rhythm of Geralt’s frottage. His hands fluttered, then landed on Geralt’s forearms, which were tensed under the strain of his thrusting hips and burgeoning desire.

“You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve wrecked you,” Geralt replied, eyes fierce and hot on Jaskier.

“You bet I’m not,” the bard shot back, color high on his cheeks but his tone teasing, commanding. “I want every inch of that glorious cock in me _now_.”

Geralt groaned, sinking down on him. Pressing that beautiful body into the mattress and reveling in the way the bedframe squealed in protest. He buried his face in Jaskier’s neck and inhaled, desperate to keep his scent and his warmth close. To permanently etch it on his body. To carry the reminder of Jaskier with him always, even if they were apart.

For a few moments, the only sounds in the room were the popping of logs in the fireplace and the reckless, needy noises from their furious coupling. If dry-humping could be called such.

Geralt thrilled at all the sounds Jaskier made, pulled from deep in his chest - high pitched whines, grunts of pleasure, little cries of “More” and “Harder” and “Oh gods” that sent shivers down his spine with each syllable. And then Jaskier said, “Geralt, _now_ ,” with unmistakable demand and an overabundance of tenderness.

“Not done yet,” Geralt protested, smacking his hips into the bard’s for a bit of extra emphasis.

“You’re going to rub us both raw,” Jaskier protested, playfully slapping at his arm. “I was not joking about needing your cock right this _fucking second_ , you lummox.”

“Hmmm, keep calling me names and see what happens,” Geralt warned playfully, eyes sparking in the dim room. He smirked at Jaskier’s little gasp, pleased at the look that crossed his beautific face.

“You are a brute,” Jaskier said in a harsh whisper, sliding his hands up to grab Geralt’s jaw and tug him down into a sloppy kiss.

“You like it.”

“I do.”

They broke away, gasping. Hurried fingers undid laces on each other’s smallclothes, which were thrown back over Geralt’s head to some unknown fate. As long as they didn’t catch on fire, it didn’t matter. “You’re going to impale me with that thing.” Jaskier’s tone was that of awe mixed with desperation, his fingernails digging into Geralt’s hips, pulling him close. “That is the finest cock I’ve ever seen and will ever see until my dying day.”

While never shy about his body, Geralt had also never been stared at quite the way Jaskier was fixated now. His breathing hitched as Jaskier reached out a single finger, swiping it over the deep red head of his cock, gathering up the pre-come that pearled there. His hips jutted forward, seeking more contact. 

Needing it. Needing it to only ever come from his bard.

“Oh you gorgeous thing, I’m going to die with you inside me and all the better for it.” When Geralt grunted - either at Jaskier’s words or how they made the back of his neck flush - Jaskier laughed before sucking on that finger. 

“Fuck,” Geralt whispered, watching Jaskier lick his pre-come off that devastating digit, those blue eyes sparkling in dim firelight. Alight with mischief.

“That is the idea, Geralt.” One of his hands drifted down to his own cock, repeating the motion of gathering milky-white liquid, but now he held it out to Geralt. A silent offering of his taste for Geralt’s tongue.

Geralt surged forward, grabbing Jaskier’s wrist, pulling that hand to his lips and sucking not just the index finger, but three fingers into his mouth. Jaskier let his head fall back against the pillows, eyes rolled up in pleasure that made his cock twitch against his stomach.

He took the moment to admire his lover’s body, with his narrow hips and muscled thighs and the defined arms and chest of someone used to the repetitive motion of lute-strumming. And then there was his cock, red and pulsing with the beat of a bard’s heart. “I have never, ever wanted anyone the way I want you,” Geralt said, placing one kiss inside Jaskier’s right hip. The bard’s dextrous fingers were instantly in his hair, tugging, searching, beseeching.

“Geralt. Geralt _please_ ,” Jaskier whispered, his voice tumbled with want. He was staring at the Witcher through long, dark lashes, fighting not to squirm under the intensity of everything he was feeling. The moment pulled taut between them, stretched into long seconds of their commingled breaths in a shared space, in a shared flurry of emotions. And then he was suddenly rolling to his side, scrambling in the drawer of the bedside table.

“Jas.”

“We need -” The pop of a cork drew Jaskier’s attention. “Where the devil did you hide that?” He smiled, big and bright and it knocked something loose in Geralt’s heart.

“I said we do this right, or not at all,” Geralt purred, his hand tipping ever so slightly until a couple of drops of oil splashed onto Jaskier’s taut stomach. The bard hissed, surprise and delight in his eyes. “I tucked it under the pillow. Didn’t want to go rooting around in drawers when we needed it.”

Jaskier’s expression turned cocksure, a deadly, wicked smirk on his face. “Care to root around somewhere else?” Geralt groaned, earning him a laugh. “Horrible, I know. I swear I write lyrics for a living and then you show up all hot and bothered and naked and everything flees my mind.”

Shaking his head with a laugh, Geralt silenced the bard’s ramblings with a kiss, using the distraction to oil the fingers on his right hand. “You or me?”

Jaskier gaped for a moment, eyes darting between the shine of Geralt’s oiled fingers and his weeping cock. “Oh my gods do _not_ give me that choice.”

“Or?” Geralt arched an eyebrow, curious to know the answer and desperately trying to ignore the coil of heat in his gut.

Jaskier swallowed hard. “Or I’m going to ask for both at the same time, damn the impossibility of such a thing.”

Geralt threw back his head and laughed, then he was falling forward to kiss his bard again. And again. And again. On the fourth kiss, which turned slow and lazy, he let his slick fingers skate across the inside of Jaskier’s thigh. With no more encouragement needed, Jaskier parted his legs and bucked into Geralt’s touch.

“Please.”

And Geralt was undone.

He really was trying to be gentle, to make it so good and right for Jaskier. But their twinned desires wouldn’t allow for it. His legs now hitched high on Geralt’s waist, Jaskier shamelessly arched, making his cock smack against his stomach, leaving a trail of thin, pearly liquid. And Geralt suddenly had an idea. 

He slid thick, oiled fingers behind Jaskier’s balls, drawing a deep moan from the man under him. Then pressing in the spot just above his hole, and now Jaskier started rambling, his words bumping into each other with no breath between. “ _Geraltgodspleasefeelssogood….._ ”

“I’ve got you,” Geralt purred, leaning down to nose at the trail of hair on his lover’s chest. When his lips encountered the quickly cooling trail on Jaskier’s skin, he let his tongue follow, lapping at the liquid, reveling in its taste. 

The taste of _him_. Musk and sweat and desire and love.

As Geralt circled Jaskier’s hole, he whispered, “I have ideas for later. Dirty things I want to try with you.”

“Ung, Geralt - _fuck anything. Anything you want_ ,” Jaskier said between pants as Geralt pressed gently in. He massaged his rim, waiting for the ring of muscle to accept his intrusion. Jaskier drew in a deep breath, letting it go in rush. As his body relaxed, Geralt was able to push inside him.

“Fuck you feel good,” Geralt said in a stunned voice, eyes wild but fixed on Jaskier. Jaskier was a mess; sweating, flushed and breathing hard and gripping the bedsheets as though his life depended on it. But he was unwavering in his focus on his lover. 

The intensity of Jaskier’s stare made Geralt’s heart clench again. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured, slowly adding a second finger, desperate to touch Jaskier’s silken heat. He took his time, watching every little hitch of breath, every twitch of muscles, every time Jaskier moaned with pleasure. Slowly, gently, he opened Jaskier up and just when Jaskier began to beg, Geralt brushed that bundle of nerves deep within.

“FUCK!” Jaskier yelled loudly, earning him a snicker from the Witcher, who got a smack on the leg for his troubles. “Geralt, gods, you are murdering me here.” Geralt’s only response was to scissor his fingers and repeat the motion. Jaskier whimpered, now clawing at Geralt for _more closer please now_. 

And gods above and below, he started talking. Filthy, rotten, heart-stopping things about Geralt’s gorgeous cock and how hard he wanted to be fucked, how he wanted to be on all fours at Geralt’s mercy. Or tied to the bed so Geralt could unleash all that Witcher stamina on him.

“You had better stuff me full of that thing _right fucking now_ , Geralt,” Jaskier warned, and Geralt knew he was at the end of his tether.

“I got you,” Geralt said soothingly, running a hand down Jaskier’s chest. “Give me your hands.” 

Jaskier obeyed, much to Geralt’s delight, and together they moved until Jaskier was sitting in Geralt’s lap, legs hooked tight around his waist. “Geralt, I’m so wet,” Jaskier said, leaning forward to press his forehead to the Witcher’s. “I’m so wet and so open and I need you. Please.”

All Geralt wanted was to thrust into Jaskier’s pliant open body and set a punishing rhythm. To shove Jaskier’s face into the mattress and fuck him until he couldn’t speak and then keep going, filling his ass, stuffing him full of his cock and his come until it dripped out. He wanted to mark him, claim him, make him smell like Geralt inside and out.

But not for their first time together, and not when Jaskier was begging so sweetly, eyes beseeching, pink lips spit-slick just for him. Geralt ran his thumb over those lips and Jaskier drew it into his mouth, pulling a groan deep from Geralt’s chest. “I know, Jas. I know.”

It was the work of a moment to lift Jaskier up, who was trembling in anticipation, and situate him over Geralt’s cock. Geralt pulled Jaskier’s head down for another kiss as the head of Geralt’s cock breached his entrance. The kiss turned dirty quickly as Jaskier’s body opened to him even more and Geralt slid into that molten heat.

Jaskier made a strangled sound, hands gripping Geralt’s shoulders, but he pulled back to look at his Witcher. “Geralt,” he breathed, eyes hooded in pleasure and face slack with want. “Move.”

Geralt kissed him again, whispering, “As my bard commands.” He felt Jaskier’s shiver of delight at his words, and then obeyed. The rhythm was slow and rolling, both of them determined to learn just the right way to pull pleasure from the other’s body. Geralt pulled at Jaskier’s hips as he thrust up, making Jaskier bounce in his lap, the movement punctuated by their groans.

“You’re holding back on me,” Jaskier breathed, fisting Geralt’s hair to pull his head back. He grinned, a wicked edge to his smile that Geralt loved. “Make me feel it. I want to be sore for days, I’ve never been so full, gods I love your cock, want to feel you dripping out of me…”

Geralt’s vision went white, his breathing speeding up to an unnatural edge. Geralt rumbled a, “Hold on,” and Jaskier scrambled to obey. A large hand settled on the back of his neck and Geralt pulled him down into a kiss that bit and claimed, plundering Jaskier’s mouth as he set a brutal rhythm that Jaskier had no hopes of keeping up with. He let Geralt steer their bodies, controlling the pace, leaving Jaskier to hang off of his shoulders and dig his fingers into that white hair the bard loved so much.

Heat curled around Geralt’s spine and he knew he was close. Had to be, the way Jaskier was gripping his cock. He sped up, faster, harder. Pulling little moans and sounds from the bard that were, somehow, still sonorous, still beautiful. With the next thrust, Geralt’s cock hit just right and Jaskier threw his head back, exposing that long pale neck. 

And the bruises Geralt had left.

Something wild unclenched in him, let off its leash to run unchecked and untamed. Geralt’s vision narrowed to those bruises and that stretch of skin, so close to the tool Jaskier used to create music. _He trusts me_ , Geralt thought wildly as he snapped his hips forward, pushing Jaskier’s body to embrace all of him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped as he reached a hand down to paw at his red, weeping cock.

“I know.”

Their eyes met and just as Jaskier kissed him with tender care, Geralt felt hot stripes of come hit his chest and stomach. And with a final grunt, Geralt let go, spilling so deeply into Jaskier that dots of light clouded his vision. They were both trembling, completely overcome by every nerve lit on fire in the wake of their orgasms.

When Geralt’s vision returned he looked down to see his fingerprints painted on Jaskier’s hips. He grimaced. “Hey, what’s that about?” Jaskier said, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Didn’t mean to,” Geralt murmured, kissing the unblemished side of his neck.

“Did you hear me say my word?”

Geralt looked away but Jaskier wouldn’t let that continue; his fingers, so gentle and so warm, turned Geralt back to him. “No but…”

Jaskier silenced him with a kiss. “I will never lie to you, Geralt. Not about anything. If it’s too much, you’ll know.”

His face was so open it almost hurt to look at, but Geralt knew he was serious. He nodded, not trusting his voice. Instead, he kissed the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, listening to the bard’s pleased murmurs and sighs. Eventually they pulled apart, bodies cooling and tacky from their exertions.

Jaskier went about cleaning them up and when Geralt patted the bed, he slipped in beside him, pressing his back to Geralt’s chest. After several long, silent moments, Jaskier said, “That was incredible. Everything I ever wanted.”

Geralt gently touched the bruises on Jaskier’s hips. “I...every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.”

Jaskier chuckled and pulled Geralt’s arm over his chest, interlacing their fingers over his heart. “Hmmm and yet we’ve barely brushed the surface, my love.”

Undone, Geralt tucked his face into Jaskier’s neck and sighed. “Why’s that?”

“Because next time, I want you to tie me up.”

 _Fuck_.


	9. Sin Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leona, Lambert, and Eskel discover pleasure at each other's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need more vampire lore! So I wrote some. More dirty things with this throuple in the next chapter. Sin marks are something I've thought a lot about when it comes to vampires and I'm excited to get to write it for you here.

_It is said that a high vampire is never made, but born as such. Should both parents be mortal, a high vampire child is considered a curse upon their family, the mark of a sin committed by an ancestor somewhere in either genetic line. It is not the kind of sin mortals commit every day, however; it must be strong enough to leave a stain so deep even centuries of perfect behavior could not erase it._

_And since we know mortals are incapable of perfection, such a sin will in all likelihood create a high vampire._

_The exact mechanics are not known, but both magical and religious scholars have put forth varying, sometimes rather polarizing, theories. The most popular and widely accepted of those is that when the sin is committed, it creates a “memory mark”. And the only Nordling god known to collect memory marks was Lilvani, but she has long fallen out of the pantheon of the Continent. Again, this is part educated guess, part conjecture, but if we follow the theory that Lilvani, Mother Goddess of the Moon, is the progenitor of high vampires, this means that they ought to be creatures of the night, incapable of surviving the harsh light of day._

_So clearly something else is at play in the making of a high vampire. From the few Witchers I’ve spoken with who have met one, they are as varied in personality and temperament as mortals, capable of acts of goodness and ill, of great violence and extreme benevolence. And yes, they can walk in the sun with no consequences._

_Should I ever come across one who is willing, I would ask them about the rumor - that of the marks they carry on their skin. It is said that the sin of their ancestor is told in the etchings on their flesh, and that if you are patient, the marks will also show you prophecies even the Chaos wielded by Aretuza could not hope to foretell. My time as a Witcher is still new, still fresh, and my teachers say that The Path will soon lead me away from scholarly endeavors. That I won’t have the time or energy to continue my research, since there are plenty of monsters to kill. But even Witchers must have their hobbies, and I will make this mine. Imagine befriending a high vampire and learning about them - what they’ve seen, what they’ve done. It would mark the first time ever that Witchers had first hand knowledge that could be passed down through our orders. I never understood why my brethren were so loathe to document their findings and hunts._

_But I do know that while most high vampires are born, some do possess the power to make more of their kind. It is not unlike a parent-child relationship, a bond forming between sire and childe; and the years deepen that connection. I wonder if those who are made feel differently about their fates than those born as such. Surely they must - to go from mortal, and fallible, to immortal and nigh untouchable. It must be such a rush of power._

_Perhaps one day I will meet one who will grace me with their presence and conversation. We could learn so much._

**—From the journal of Vesemir, in line for second in command at Kaer Morhen**

* * *

Eskel pulled out of a long kiss he shared with Lambert to find Leona watching them from her seat on the bed. She was toying with the buttons on her ruffled blouse, her index finger dancing over the next one in line as she worried her bottom lip with a sharp canine.

Eskel tipped his head back to let Lambert nose along his jaw, licking and sucking along the strong line there. But he watched her lean forward, open interest on her face. Their eyes met and she smiled, no longer worried about showing her fangs. The older a high vampire the sharper - though not necessarily longer - their fangs. And hers looked to be tipped with needles. A thrill raced through him, making him once again count their fates lucky she was ally, not foe. And yeah, some part of that thrill was entwined with the spike of lust that came from knowing she was watching as Lambert reeled him for another kiss.

“Awful lonely over here,” he murmured, crooking a finger at her. 

“And yet I could say the same thing,” she replied, petting the furs near her legs. “I do love the way fur feels on my skin. It reminds me that pleasure can be found even if I can’t feel the heat of another.”

Lambert broke away from Eskel’s kiss and tugged him over to the bed, eagerness like a spotlight on his face. Leona moved back to make room for the two Witchers, grin wide and telling and her hands impossibly strong as she impatiently hauled Lambert to her with an iron grip on his forearm. The younger Witcher let himself be pulled to her, and Eskel noticed any of his earlier reluctance at being so near such a powerful creature was long gone. Particularly if the tent in his pants had anything to say on the matter.

“Your heartbeats are so slow,” Leona marveled, her fingers teasing the trail of hair on Lambert’s chest. Lambert sucked in a breath and Eskel felt his own lungs expand in riotous empathy - and jealousy. He picked up Leona’s other hand with a delicate touch, making her turn to watch him place it in a similar fashion on his own chest. 

“You know the joke about the two Witchers and the vampire,” Lambert said, voice more growl than mortal.

“Sadly, I do not,” she replied as she scratched lightly at both of them. Eskel gave a little grunt and this seemed to please her, all their noises and tiny movements that spoke volumes.

“Yeah, I don’t either,” Lambert said, tips of his ears suddenly very red. “I was trying to come up with a dirty line but it kind of…”

“Died?” Eskel finished, suppressing the urge to laugh at his brother’s embarrassment. 

“Hmmm well, maybe we can provide you with an adequate punchline.” As Leona turned to face Lambert, her legs still tucked up underneath her, Eskel took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her, pushing himself forward rather than pull her back. He had no qualms about who was _really_ in charge. 

“You smell like the mountains,” he said, awed, as he buried his face in her hair where it tumbled loose against her neck and shoulders. “How?”

She laughed, the sound high and bright and unerringly human, but her sharp eyes didn’t deviate from Lambert’s. His Witcher senses were dulled by drink and desire, but he knew. They both did. And yet somehow, the vaguest threat of her power and strength and those sharp, sharp teeth only heightened the pleasure. 

Leona stayed, trapped, between the two powerful bodies and firm hands and warm skin of her lovers. “You mean I don’t smell like old blood and dusty books?” she teased, running a hand over Lambert’s knee. "It's a custom scent, and the last of it, sadly."

The Witcher hissed then dove for her, pressing her back into Eskel while he claimed her mouth. Eskel steadied her, sliding his hands across her waist, but he began kissing her neck with a similar fire and fervor as the one with which Lambert kissed her. 

Leona let every little touch and kiss jolt her body awake, hurtling her into a space she rarely tred. It allowed her to cede a part of her carefully crafted control, the very thing that had kept her alive for so long. Knowing each variable, each piece of the puzzle, was key to her survival and it took an ungodly force to surprise her.

These two Witchers did surprise her. From Lambert’s initial unease to now, as he kissed her and claimed her lips and slipped his tongue inside her mouth and his hands wandered across her hips, his fingers brushing Eskel’s. And Eskel had shocked her from their very first meeting; the ease with which he trusted her, and then his open, honest interest. And finally his desire to be bitten, to let her steal a part of him and use it for her own purposes. 

So she decided to trust them, to let them steer their tryst. Leona fell back against Eskel, unfolding her legs while Lambert chased her with his hands and mouth. Now propped up against Eskel’s chest, Lambert could reach every part of her and as she expected, his fingers were making short work of every fussy button on her clothing. As he undid the last button on her blouse, Leona wrapped one hand around his, the other around that of Eskel’s as it played at the laces on her pants.

“Have either of you heard of sin marks?” she asked between red, swollen lips. 

“I’ve heard of stupid fucking buttons that won’t come undone,” Lambert groused, finally plucking that last button from its hole and immediately putting his hands on her - still clothed - stomach. “Fuck, why do you have so many layers on?”

“ _Because_ of my sin marks,” she said slowly, tapping underneath his chin with a finger so he’d look up at her.

Eskel propped his chin on her shoulder, meeting Lambert’s eyes over her lithe body. “Can’t say I have,” he admitted. “Sounds kind of -“

“Kinky,” Lambert finished with a lecherous grin.

“Ugh, seriously?”

“What?” The younger Witcher waggled his eyebrows. “Sin marks? I bet you can ask for that service at the Passiflora.” He adopted a pose like a man in prayer, palms pressed together and hands pointed up. “Oh Melitele, I’ve prayed every day for your bountiful harvest but all I got was a wench named Rosemary. But she’s _mean_ with that whip!”

Despite his momentary admonition of his brother, Eskel laughed, drawing a snicker from Leona. “Joking aside,” she said after a moment, her tone turning serious. “These are sin marks.”

With her free hand, she pulled up the hem of her undershirt and let both men see her pale skin. At first they looked like old scars, long gone with white and dull with age. But a closer look revealed every inch was marked by etchings deep under the skin. Deeper than any scar could go, they were part of her flesh, and no space was untouched. It was a language told in indecipherable glyphs and runes but they held a pattern even the untrained, naked eye could trace. 

Leona saw their curious looks and, decision made in the moment they didn’t recoil from her, she hitched a thumb in the waist of her pants and tugged one edge down. It slid down her waist and just over the top of her hipbone, where more marks were revealed. “Sin marks,” she said softly. “At least, that’s what we call them. Perhaps our progenitors had other names for them, but we will never know. Supposedly they tell the story of the sin my ancestor committed that made me what I am.”

And she waited.

After a long beat, where she could feel the heat of their eyes on her, Lambert reached out to touch the strange, swirling mark above her hip. Staring at it too long made his head hurt, so he drew his gaze back up to her. “Can you read them?” he asked softly.

“Parts,” she admitted, tapping the one he’d been eyeing. “The general sense is _and lo behold the mouth of needles and the gaze of stone, her rage will be the storm and the quiet as the land dies_.” All three were silent for a long moment and as Leona sagged against Eskel, something left her face. As if she’d spoken a long buried truth aloud and now it no longer carried the same power. It wasn’t relief, but it was a cousin to it.

“Shit, Leona, I was joking earlier. Had no idea it was -”

Leona stopped Lambert’s tumble of words with a finger to his lips. “You do not have to apologize. I know you meant no harm.” Eskel squeezed her waist in a comforting manner and Leona hummed in appreciation, the edges of her irises going dark as she remembered how close they were and how much she loved it. “But if you’re looking to make up for it….” She trailed off, eyeing him up and down.

Lambert fought the urge to squirm. “Yeah?”

“Take off your pants.”

“I second that,” Eskel said, voice gone dark and velvety. He let Leona push back against him until he was leaning against the headboard, and she on him. Eskel’s legs were spread wide to accommodate her and if she pressed a bit too hard against his cock, neither complained. 

His big, rough fingers toyed with the end of her shirt, dipping below to touch her skin. The raised patterns underneath her flesh were intriguing and mysterious and he wanted to kiss them all. To let her know that no matter their name, they were part of her and that meant they were beautiful. “Is this okay?” His voice was in her ear, soft and warm, his breath brushing her neck.

“Yes,” she said, tipping her head back so he could access her neck. It was a sign of trust and a silent plea of _please_. Eskel stroked the side of her neck with two fingers but he watched Lambert clamber off the bed and put an extra sway in his step to draw their attention.

“Off, huh?” He grinned, big and wide and rotten as he slowly undid the top button on his heavy leather trousers. Lambert thrust his hips forward, making both of them groan just a little. As Eskel kissed his way down her neck, they both watched Lambert slowly undo his pants, button by button with one hand. He brought his other hand up to play about his bare chest; wide and barreled in the pectorals, tapering to a fine set of abs and nipped in waist, Eskel felt his mouth water. He’d kissed and sucked his way across that chest many times, but never with a partner. 

This was special. Sacred. And the vampire whom he was kissing now, while his brother slowly stripped for them both, seemed to appreciate the sight at the foot of the bed. He knew vampires could mimic bodily reactions of the living, and the cost was being fed and rested. So when he brushed a hand down the side of her chest and his fingers trailed over a pebbled nipple, Eskel wasn’t shocked. His fascination lay in the fact that the more he touched her, the more she warmed. 

By this point Lambert had undone every button his pants and now the barest flap of leather hid his hard cock from view. “Think you can handle two of us, huh?” he said, eyes locked on Leona. Lambert licked his lips and slowly - painstakingly - peeled the leather from his hips. His stance was wide and commanding and the tease was too good.

“Cocktease,” Eskel growled, nipping at Leona’s collarbone. He felt her reach back to scratch at his scalp. Just as her nails started to leave tingling trails in their wake, she grabbed his hair, fisting it with a rough twist of her wrist. He growled at her this time, blunt teeth scraping across her shoulder.

“Mmm you two are pretty,” Lambert said, pushing the leather pants to the floor and gripping his red, weeping cock with his right hand. “Kinda want to stand here and just watch, maybe come all over that pretty chest of yours, brother.”

“Oh.” Leona breathed out the word, unable to tear her eyes away from the slow, steady motion of Lambert’s hand over his impressively wide cock. “Gorgeous.”

Lambert couldn’t help but preen a little at her compliment, especially when he was so turned on all he wanted to do was seek relief for the tight coil of lust low in his gut. He stalked forward, powerful body on display; he knew he had their full attention. 

“I’m gonna fuck him like I never have before.” Eskel’s words were a harsh whisper in her ear and Leona bucked into his touch. Those rough hands, the velvet-warm lips on her skin. “What do you want, Leona?”

Eskel found himself pressed into the bed and he gaped at her. Leona pressed down on his chest, palms flat and firm, and as the bed sank below Lambert’s added weight, she said, “I want this one to put that mouth to good use while you take him from behind.” She snaked a hand into Lambert’s hair, pulling, earning her a deep-throated groan and the press of a hard cock against the small of her back.

“Dirty, I like it,” Lambert rumbled, hands eager to rid her of her clothing. “Gonna make you scream, darling. You’ll never want anyone other than a Witcher.”

“Bold words,” she panted, arching as he lifted her shirt, baring her to them. Those marks below her skin gleamed dully in the firelight and they both reached for her with soft touches. Eskel sat up to lick a trail up her sternum while Lambert pulled her hair out of the way to mouth at the back of her neck, his tongue fervent in its worship. Eskel’s fingers traced the top, then the sides of her breasts and she sighed, her spine loosening, going liquid.

“Time to take these off,” Eskel said, tugging at the laces on her trousers. “Want to see you.”

“Want to taste you. Just like you want.” Lambert bit down on her earlobe and she _growled_ in response. It was the noise of a predator, an unnatural, immortal creature who could best them both. They knew she was holding back, that she was letting them control the situation. But some part of Lambert screamed for her to unleash. He wanted to see her feral and groaning and clawing, leaving marks on his back and ….

 _Fuck_ , he thought as he mapped her skin and spine with his hands. _I do want her to bite me. Melitele’s tits, I really do._


	10. Better Than Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir and Ciri discuss the fates and loves of Witchers while the others are....occupied. And Ciri wants to see Leona's powers in action and the vampire and Geralt acquiesce to her request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood, blood drinking, violence

_A few hours earlier_

“Uncle Vesemir?”

“Yes, child?”

Ciri hesitated, biting her lip as her eyes darted around the room. Vesemir was ready to wait her out when she said, in a burst of words, “Can Witchers love? Geralt says he doesn’t feel like humans do and that seems sad to me.”

 _Oh cub_. “We can. And we do. But it rarely ends well.”

She crossed her arms and stared out the window. Vesemir got a glimpse of the girl - the child - she once was, before he had ever met her; and of the young woman she was becoming, headstrong and stubborn and not unlike a certain Witcher he’d also raised. “You were all made that way? That’s...completely unfair.”

He fought back a sigh, wrestled with it until it was buried deep in his lungs. “So much is, my girl. A Witcher’s life isn’t easy, ever. And for some, the decision to stay apart from humans is the simpler, less hurtful choice.”

Ciri turned those green eyes on him and then he glimpsed the woman she would grow up to be. “But you and Geralt and Eskel and Lambert know mortals. Befriend them.” She gestured to herself. “You took me in.” Hesitance played about her features. “But I’m not really human, am I?”

He shook his head. “You know you’re not.”

“But Jaskier is.”

Vesemir had asked himself that over the last few weeks. There was a sparkle about the man that was hard to deny. He had charm and wit of any bard hoping to fill their purse in some backwater town in Velen, but he was also _magnetic_ , drawing in folks who would have otherwise stayed out of the crowd and would have preferred to drink quietly in a corner.

Like Geralt.

Jaskier’s ability with Geralt should have earned him a medal, in Vesemir’s opinion. The man only got more stubborn, more bullheaded as he aged, which Vesemir knew was partially his fault. He raised them to be tough, to fight, and to win. And he’d told them over and over again to never fully trust humans; all they’d do is sling mud, insults, and worse at a Witcher and drive mobs to knock down your door and ride you out of town. And that was if you were lucky.

Love was complicated and messy and not for Witchers. But he’d only told them that once and hoped it would stick. Any more and he’d out himself as a hypocrite.

But Geralt was special, and for so many reasons, he’d pushed the boy harder than the others. It was his fault Geralt was just now dealing with his emotions. He just hoped the Witcher wised up and if the way he was looking at his bard tonight was any indication, they might be all right.

“I don’t honestly know, Ciri,” he said as he sat down heavily in the chair by her bedside. “I think there’s a glimmer of something….else about the man. Haven’t met many humans _that_ charming, and even fewer who would willingly follow a Witcher.”

Ciri hummed thoughtfully, giving Vesemir a once-over that made him question the girl’s actual age. She’d taken so quickly to his ragged little band of Witchers tucked away in an ancient fortress, but he also knew everyone she loved was dead and gone and any stability was probably better than ruminating on the ashes of Cintra.

“Well, hopefully they keep it down tonight. I’m tired and I want to sleep,” she said with a pointed glance at him, then to her door. Vesemir bit off a laugh, shaking his head as he stood. “Good night, Uncle Vesemir.”

He ambled to the door, silently cursing his age and his bad back, and said softly, “Good night, cub.”

* * *

_Later that night, down the hallway_

Jaskier dozed on Geralt’s chest, listening to the steady, slow thump of his heart. He was warm and sated and content and yet, his thoughts wouldn’t stop churning. “Do you really think I’m part Fae?” he muttered, stroking Geralt’s sternum with a finger.

“Hmmm?” Gentle fingers carded through his hair.

“You said I taste like magic. Leona said I smelled like Fae magic. Guess anything’s possible.”

“Go to sleep, Jas.”

“Okay. Remind me in the morning to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Mmmph.” And Jaskier fell asleep.

* * *

_Even further down the hall, near the north tower_

Lambert had a cock in his ass and a vampire riding his face and he’d never been so happy. Eskel had folded him in half and slammed in, taking without quarter or mercy as he pounded into Lambert’s slick, stretched hole, his fingers digging into Lambert’s hips with a punishing grip. 

And then Leona sat on his face, her borrowed warmth giving him a headrush of pleasure as he licked and sucked her swollen, wet cunt.

He was trapped - willingly - between two exquisite lovers who barely let him breathe or think. He gripped Leona’s hand, giving her something to use as leverage as she rocked on his face, but held her down by the hip with his other hand.

Lambert dove into her with his tongue, tasting her. She moaned, biting off a sharp gasp as he curled into her willing body. 

“You better eat her out completely or I’m going to stop fucking you,” Eskel warned, a dangerous edge to his voice. He snapped his hips forward, making Lambert groan. “Better...be...on….your best….behavior…little wolf.” Each word was punctuated by the thrust of his hips.

“My gods,” Leona said, her grip like iron on Lambert’s hand. She ground down again, following the suck and pull and twist of Lambert’s lips and tongue, chasing her own pleasure and that of the two men she was so intimately connected with. She could hear the blood rushing through Lambert’s veins, the quick uptempo kick of his heart and Eskel’s, and knew they were nearing their climaxes. 

And suddenly she was behind Eskel, holding his head delicately. If he was surprised by her movement, Eskel didn’t show it. And he definitely didn’t stop fucking Lambert, who did blink in surprise at the sudden loss of her on his face. “You’re close,” she purred in Eskel’s ear, fingers brushing the hair out of his face.

Lambert whined at the way Eskel stretched him, rocking into each thrust with abandon now that he could focus on the cock splitting him in half. “Gonna take him?” he panted, eyes hooded and glassy as his orgasm built and built.

“If he’ll let me,” she said, smiling coyly before running her tongue in a quick wet strip up Eskel’s neck. When he didn’t flinch or pull away, she grazed him with her fangs; enough to prick but not sink in. Eskel’s hips stuttered, pulling a cry of pleasure from Lambert.

“Do it,” Eskel growled, doubling down on how fast and hard he fucked Lambert.

With one last look at Lambert, the vampire reared back, fangs bared, and struck. Eskel cried out but he didn’t stop pounding into Lambert’s willing body. And Lambert was frozen, staring, feeling the girth and warmth of Eskel’s cock and, so strangely, the bite in his neck. 

He watched Leona screw her eyes shut in bliss and the vision of her drinking from the man fucking him was too much, too good. A rush of adrenaline hit him like headlong running into a wall and he bucked up, crying out as his climax hit hard enough to force the air from his lungs. He came all over his neck and chest and the sheets beneath him, his body rocking with the intensity of it, vision going white.

Eskel felt the exquisite, searing pain of Leona’s bite. And at the same time, he felt Lambert clench around him, that slick heat sucking him in deeper and deeper until he felt Lambert shudder, heard him cry out. His brain could hardly separate it all; so intense, so fast, so _good_. And that was all it took it. He came with a hoarse shout, pumping into Lambert’s body, letting him take it all. 

Eskel faintly registered Leona slowing, no longer pulling his blood from his vein But he could also feel his heart speeding up under the force of his orgasm and her feeding, but it was all twisted together in a rush like nothing he’d ever felt before. The pain turned, spun, morphed into another sense of pleasure; a whole body tingle that made him feel weightless and warm.

The air became thick with the smell of sex and blood and sweat and _fuck_ , she’d missed this. The taste was deeper than honey, rich and sweet and salty and she felt it melt through her. And gods, the magic of his Signs buzzed across her tongue and traveled up into her brain. It had been like this with Vesemir, too, but he tasted like dedication and loyalty and persistence; steady, strong, true. Pine trees guarding a fortress, their silent vigil keeping watch over the centuries.

Eskel tasted like fire.

_The Dragon of Kaer Morhen_

Knowing they had hurtled off the edge, Leona pulled away, fangs dripping, mouth dappled with Eskel’s blood. Eskel began to slump with exhaustion so she licked the bites closed and held him with an arm across his chest so he didn’t fall directly onto Lambert’s flushed body.

“Oh gods.” Lambert threw an arm over his eyes. “Fuck me, holy shit.” Aftershocks tremored through him, little earthquakes of pleasure that didn’t let up on his poor, abused cock. It twitched against the mess on his stomach, trying to rally as he shook through the rest of his climax.

“Yeah,” Eskel replied weakly, forcing his eyes open to stare down at Lambert. “I missed you, little wolf.”

Lambert rubbed his stubbled jaw with his knuckles but his grin was bright. “Missed you, too.”

She didn’t want to break the moment. Gods above and below, the way they stared at each other, their bodies cooling and muscles loose, their grins almost drunk.

“Are you all right?” Leona finally asked Eskel, her voice close to his ear. 

“I’m….good. And dizzy.”

“Let me help.”

She helped them clean up and resettle on the bed, so beautifully curled around each other. And then it hit her. The pain lanced through her jaw and up into her face and she ducked away, sucking in a deep breath. _Godsdamned Witcher blood._

Lambert tried to snag her by the arm as she passed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He could see her jaw tense but she was trying very hard to not face them. “I’m not….polite company right now.”

“Nuh uh, get your perky ass over here,” Eskel growled. He patted the bed with a dull thump. “I already made him lay in the wet spot, since he made the mess.”

“I hate you,” Lambert muttered, making Eskel laugh. “And your come is still dribbling out of my ass, so you know.” Eskel replied to that by slapping the cheek Lambert had pressed into him.

With a sigh, Leona turned, watching their expressions warily as they took in her black eyes and shockingly sharp cheekbones and chin. The bones of her face had elongated and were now protruding unerringly. She was still beautiful, but carried with her an edge of the unnatural.

And maybe more shocking than that was the way her sin marks glowed, various, seemingly random ones now lit by some eerie light buried deep within her body.

“I would not interrupt your afterglow with my problem.” And she waited for their decision.

Without a word, Eskel patted the bed again and he and Lambert parted, making room between them. She stared at them for a long moment, something warring on her face before crawling on the bed, letting them pull her up and wrap her in their warmth. “Witchers,” she muttered, shaking her head but silently thankful they didn’t turn her away.

Witchers and high vampires weren’t supposed to have feelings. Leona was grateful that rumor wasn’t true.

* * *

“Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” Eskel teased as Geralt and Jaskier made their way downstairs for breakfast. The others were already seated except for Ciri and Lambert, who were bent over a table of alchemy supplies as Lambert pointed out various herbs and reagents. Leona was curiously missing, her seat by Vesemir empty.

To Jaskier’s credit, his face only flushed a little but his grin was devious. “Oh, Geralt.”

“Hmmm?” 

Geralt turned and Jaskier pulled him down into a sloppy kiss. Geralt made a “mmmph” sound of surprise but those big, rough hands settled on the bard’s hips. The message was clear.

 _Mine, but I’ll let you watch_.

“They’ll want to know if they can join.” Geralt’s voice was quiet but Witcher hearing was both a blessing and a curse. 

“I might be willing to share you,” Jaskier shot back, watching the way Eskel’s eyes sharpened on them. 

“Lambert will love that.”

“Would you?”

“You know I would.”

Something dark and wicked crossed over Jaskier’s face but he only brushed Geralt’s hair back from his shoulders and sauntered to the table. Geralt knew that extra sway in his hips was for him, especially since Jaskier had been complaining only minutes before they left their room that his ass hurt.

As they settled in for their meal, the door to the hall banged open. Snow and a bitter wind rushed in, drawing a yelp from Ciri, who rushed to pin down the loose pages she and Lambert had been looking at.

“Successful hunt?” Vesemir asked without looking up from his plate.

Two deer carcasses were dropped on the floor. “Nothing like a run through the forest at dawn,” Leona replied. She brushed the snow and fur off her jacket, flicking away an errant drop of blood to land on the cold flagstones. “Should I take these to the kitchen?”

“Please.”

“Consider it done.” Leona winked at her old friend and hauled the deer off.

Ciri waited until Leona left before turning to Lambert. “I want to train with her, too.”

The room fell silent as everyone focused on the princess. “Don’t know that’s a good idea, cub,” Vesemir rumbled. “We need to get you good with a sword before we do anything too -”

“I want to.” She looked to Geralt, her eyes pleading. “She’s fast and strong and you said high vampires were some of the deadliest foes to Witchers. I might as well start learning now.”

Geralt’s jaw worked as he considered this. “Leona’s too fast for you, Ciri. Even if she pulled every punch, she’d end it before it began.”

“Kid, you can barely hold a sword properly,” Lambert said. His tone was soft but Ciri’s lips thinned in frustration. “I get it, I do. But listen to Geralt.”

“Geralt -”

He put up a hand. “Hold on. Might have a better idea.”

Vesemir chuckled. “Hope you like the taste of mud. Because she’ll be pushing your face in it.”

* * *

It had taken some planning and negotiation between Vesemir, Geralt, and Leona, but by mid-afternoon they were ready.

“You really want to do this?” Vesemir asked, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh as he stood on the outside of the training ring.

Geralt shrugged. “Ciri’s curious.” He rolled his neck, letting his muscles tense then relax. From up above on the scaffolding, Eskel let out a wolf whistle and the others laughed.

Vesemir would be playing instructor for Ciri but he was also there to referee. “Do I have to tell you two to make it a clean fight?”

“We’re standing in this mud pit you call a training ring and I’m facing down the White Wolf.” Leona bared her fangs in a grin. “Not going to be clean.”

“Promise?” Geralt shot back, unsheathing his steel sword, the blade rasping from its scabbard. No silver for this; it was supposed to hurt, not decimate.

“Anyone care to bet on how quickly I pin Geralt to the ground?” Leona asked teasingly, hands on her hips.

There was some shuffling between Eskel and Jaskier and Geralt caught the flash of coin. “Jas,” he rumbled threateningly, but the bard gave him a wide, sunny smile. “Little shit.” 

“Shouldn’t she have a weapon?” Ciri asked as they watched Leona peel out of her velvet jacket.

“Kid, she _is_ a weapon.” Lambert pointed at the high vampire as she walked out of the courtyard, disappearing around a corner. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Why do you think Geralt’s got his armor on?”

Vesemir had Geralt stand at the center of the training ring as he began to narrate. “Witchers mutations let them sense things in the world around them. Each school trains them differently. Wolves train to track scents. But they can also smell dangerous creatures from miles away, which is key to survival in the wilder places.” 

Geralt took his cue. Decades of practice let him snap the world around him into a tunnel-like focus. The edges of his sight blurred. He saw the heartbeats of his brothers and Vesemir, slow and steady, then the bird-like flutter of Ciri’s quicker pulse. Jaskier’s heart had only sped up a little and that was where he focused his sense of smell.

Anticipation, excitement. No fear. Not from his bard. There was a hunger in the air from Lambert and Eskel, a gnawing, kneading scent that wormed through Geralt’s gut. As he grounded himself in their scents, Geralt pushed his senses out, searching.

It was very faint, but the dried copper and burnt hair scent of old blood was high above and behind him. He whirled, hearing Ciri gasp, and began to scan the parapets for his prey. He stalked forward on light feet, sword at the ready. The wind whipped by him, stinging his face and stirring the snow on the edge of the courtyard.

Silence.

“Vampires are incredibly stealthy,” Vesemir said quietly. “They can move without almost any noise perceptible to human ears. They strike without warning. High vampires are even more deadly. They are silent killers, if they choose to be.”

The blur of motion from the third story window was like an arrow shot straight at Geralt, just motion and speed and force that Geralt couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to. **_Quen_ ** went up in time to take the brunt of the blow, the glowing shield shattering instantly, but he was thrown backwards to land on his back in the mud. His sword flew from his hand and landed several feet away.

They’d planned this to happen, but it still knocked Geralt for a loop when Leona, fangs bared and hissing in his face, lifted him by the collar with one hand. “Witcher,” she spat. 

He lashed out with his fist, a blow she dodged with ease. It let him slice at her with a dagger he pulled from his belt, connecting with her ribs and making her yowl. Adrenaline surged through him as she dropped him in the mud and shot by him, her claws raking at his armor.

“Lambert was correct,” Vesemir continued as the two parried and traded blows. “Vampires are their own weapons. Their speed, claws, and fangs make a lethal combination. Witchers are trained to always be ready, always be prepared, but what makes vampires so deadly is how quick they are.”

“High vampires more so,” Eskel explained as Leona danced away from Geralt’s fist. He used the distraction to dive for his sword, bringing it up in time to block her swipe at his face. “She could have taken his skin off with one hand if he hadn’t stopped her.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed. He leaned forward, entranced and just a little bit excited from watching Geralt fight. He was so beautiful even in the face of Leona’s impossible quickness, his movements fluid and sweeping, trying to cover as much ground and air as possible in hopes of landing another hit.

“She’s holding back?”

“Yeah, kid,” Lambert answered, patting her shoulder. “She has to.”

But Geralt and Leona didn’t hear the conversation happening above them. Each was too focused on the other, the delicate balance of their “fight” versus their instincts to end it just as quickly. Geralt would get in a blow and then Leona would dodge the next two. He never found himself so grateful she was using only a fraction of her true strength.

After a few more parries, Leona got a hand hooked into Geralt’s armor and with a nasty grin, she leapt up, taking them both into the air.

“Holy shit,” Eskel said. He looked down at Vesemir. “Please tell me you knew she could do that.”

His mentor only smiled, watching the vampire and the Witcher slowly twirl in the air twenty feet above them.

“Surprise,” she said at Geralt’s shocked expression.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he snapped, looking down at the training ring. “You can fly?”

“Not quite. This is the limit of my power in this regard.” She pointed down at the others. “And I think Ciri has a decent idea now, yes?”

“Yeah.” Every hunter’s instinct told him to not put his arms around her, but the logic part of his brain knew she wouldn’t drop him. “Now put me down.”

“As the Witcher commands.”

When they were back on the ground, Leona struck. Her hand shot up to Geralt’s throat and squeezed while she hit him hard in the back with her free hand. The nerve went numb instantly and he dropped his sword. “Last part of the lesson,” Vesemir said, face now very serious. “High vampires are the most dangerous of their kind because they pass for human. The old ones are careful and clever. If you ever meet a high vampire, do not trust them. Few are as morally upright as Leona.”

“And even then,” she rasped, “I’m still just a creature.” She squeezed Geralt’s throat and he spluttered, fighting for air. “And I live off only one substance.” With the most tight leash on her control, Leona let her fangs elongate as she pulled her head back as if to strike. “Lucky for Geralt, I’ve had Witcher recently.”

And she let him go. He stumbled forward, rubbing at his throat and coughing. Jaskier was already halfway down the ladder but Geralt waved him off. “I’m fine, Jaskier. We planned this.”

Jaskier landed on the ground and dashed over to him, hands fluttering as he worried. “Are you sure?”

Geralt nodded. “I’m good. Fuck, she’s strong.” 

"Let's get you cleaned up." Jaskier wiped mud off Geralt's face. "My god, you're going to need two baths to get all this off."

Leona stared up at Ciri’s wide eyes. “Seen enough?”

Ciri swallowed hard but said, “Yes. I...that was incredible.”

“No concern for me?” Geralt teased as he rubbed his shoulder where Leona had landed a particular harsh blow. 

“No, because Jaskier will take care of you.” Ciri’s words were flat but her tone was delighted as she watched Jaskier lean into Geralt’s side and steer him from the ring.

“Damn right,” Jaskier shot back. He helped Geralt over to the courtyard door, then turned to Leona with a smirk. “Eskel or Lambert?”

She returned it. “Take a guess.”

Still on the scaffolding, Eskel groaned and leaned his forehead on the railing, much to Lambert’s delight.


	11. A Thing for Witchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y’all, it’s just a lot of sexual tension.
> 
> Also Geralt wants everyone to be satisfied. And Eskel is way too kind for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the plot thin? Yep! I just wanted to write smut and ended up adding in feelings and a vampire and some magic. Don’t worry, everyone will bone at some point.

Eskel looked up from the blade he was sharpening when he heard footsteps approach. “Bard,” he said, taking in the man’s immaculate clothing. Every detail perfect, every bit of embroidery beautiful and unnecessary. But anxiety radiated off of him like the sun. 

It wasn’t  _ because _ of Eskel, but something weighing on the bard’s mind.  _ You’d think tumbling in Geralt’s bed would be enough to settle anyone _ , he thought with a smirk. 

“May I?” Jaskier gestured to the chair to Eskel’s right. The day was bitterly cold - one for the record books, Vesemir had said before yelling to Geralt and Lambert to check on the horses.

“Rather boring right now, I’m afraid,” Eskel admitted. “Just trying to stay warm.” He gave the man a grin and shook dark hair out of his eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

Jaskier sat. Then fidgeted. Then sighed. Eskel waited him out, the slow, steady strokes of the whetstone against steel meditative in its own way. “Geralt said you know the Fae courts,” Jaskier blurted out. “I’m curious.”

Eskel set his tools and blade aside, turning to look at Jaskier. “Been to them a few times. It’s uh...a strange place.”

“Strange how?” Jaskier’s eyes had already widened, the promise of a story making his face light up.

Eskel shrugged. “Don’t know if I can explain it. It’s like the difference between seasons, but everything is magic. Even the air has a different feel. A different taste.” He looked up, remembering the scent of dying leaves and blossoming flowers. “If you ever go, stick with Autumn or Spring. They like humans there.”

Jaskier tapped his chin in thought, but his lips were a thin, stark line.  _ A pity for those lips _ , Eskel thought, then shook it away. The bard was pretty and smelled good, but after a few nights in Geralt’s bed, he only smelled his brother - all over the other man. “Is this about the whole ‘bit of Fae’ thing?” he asked Jaskier and instantly saw that flash of anxiety on the man’s face. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s a weird thing, learning you might have a little something else mixed in with the human.”

Eskel leaned back in his seat, enjoying the heat of the fire on his back. He crossed his ankle over his knee and waited. It only took a few seconds. The questions tumbled out of Jaskier, end over end. Where are the courts? Would they let him visit? Does having Fae blood mean he’s magical? And what does that mean? Could the courts tell him?

Given Jaskier’s impressive lung capacity, Eskel waited him out. Finally, Jaskier slumped forward and put his head in his hands. “I’m just so curious,” he said, voice muffled by his palms.

Eskel answered each one in turn, but started with a warning. “I only know so much. Witchers and the Fae don’t mix well. I know we’ve sent Envoys in the past but it’s a touchy thing. They’re ‘other’, so humans fear them. But unlike elves and dwarves, they still have their own realms. They don’t need to mix with the rest of us.”

So he told Jaskier what he knew - the courts are hidden and you need to be invited; yes and no, since it’s likely only a little Fae blood but it might have some beneficial side effects; and the courts could probably tell him but they’d have no reason to, since he was more human than Fae.

“But double check the library, and talk to Leona,” Eskel finished. “I know she’s been digging into magical histories for Ciri’s sake. She may have come up with something or know where to look. Especially since she’s the one who caught it. “

“Beneficial how? You mean my music?” 

Eskel nodded. “You’ve quite a talent for it, more than any bard I’ve ever heard.” He tried to ignore the pretty flush that bloomed on Jaskier’s throat, quickly moving his gaze back to his weapon. Big, scarred palms gripped the sword; his hands were rough and chapped from the cold and he wondered what the bard would feel like under him.

How did Geralt’s big, scarred hands feel on Jaskier’s skin? 

_ You just had mindblowing sex last night, knock it the fuck off. Stop drooling over what’s not yours. _

Eskel cleared his throat and said, “But it also could be, uh, a bit of extra vitality. You’re what, thirty? No grey hairs, no wrinkles. Could be that.”

The bard’s expression grew thoughtful. “I never thought of it that way. I always assumed a bit of longevity was to do with big magic, like Witchers and elves and such. But that makes sense. I don’t  _ feel _ like I’ve aged.” He brightened. “Maybe my best song yet will be an epic piece about having a touch of the Fae inside -“ Jaskier froze, eyes huge and Eskel couldn’t hold back his laughter. “I’ll work on the wording first.”

Jaskier gave the other Witcher another once-over as the big man calmed himself. The scars told a set of stories - a hard life on the Path, mostly alone, fighting off horrific creatures. A Witcher’s life. But one thing Jaskier had never expected was to describe such a man as gentle. And yet he was, particularly with animals and Ciri. Such affections were hard to miss, as Eskel never hid them, and they just made Jaskier curious. Well, more curious than normal. He knew Geralt and Eskel were close, had grown up together. But something still sparked between the two Witchers. It was evident in the way they moved around each other; the hand on a shoulder or a hip, the brush of fingers when passing tools. 

Did Eskel wish to be in Geralt’s bed again? And….would they let him watch? Or would they pull him between their bodies and let him lead?

Jaskier shook himself. “So library. Looks like I’m pulling that duty for the day.” Jaskier was silent for a long moment, gaze fixed, rather boldly, on Eskel. It was a curious look, not invasive in the least. But Eskel felt it like the man had run a hand over his skin. “And speaking of our resident vampire,” Jaskier said, “you seem no worse for wear.” He motioned to Eskel’s neck.

“Ah, yeah.” He reached up a hand to run it over the spot Leona had bitten. 

“I must know.”

Eskel’s gaze turned devious. There was a heat there that matched the fire roaring at their backs and Jaskier’s gut tightened. “Why don’t you ask her?” He grinned. “Though human, even with a little Fae, might be a bit bland after she just had Witcher.”

Jaskier harrumphed. “I’m not about to get into a debate over who tastes better, Eskel. No, I’m simply wondering -“

“No idea.” Eskel shrugged. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “So you - and Lambert. Ah.”

“Ah what?” 

“Just curious!” He squirmed in his seat but there was a smile playing about his lips. 

_ Oh. Interesting. _

The bard was playing a game he wasn’t going to win. Eskel set aside his sword, let the tip of the blade scrape across the stone before propping it up against the wall. He stood and rolled his neck, a lazy, languorous movement. It made the thick tendons of his neck and shoulders stand out and he heard Jaskier’s gulp. The scent of interest - not outright desire, but definitely something warm and spicy - hit Eskel’s nostrils. “Yeah, me and Lambert,” he rumbled, looking down at the man he now loomed over. “Lambert’s all mouth and snark, but he’s a fantastic lover. Makes the sweetest little sounds.”

_ Oh GODS what am I doing? Why am I playing with a Witcher like this? _ Jaskier’s brain went into hyperfocus mode, taking in the tiny details. The way the light played across Eskel’s chest and hands. The bunch of his muscles as he flexed. The slash of dark hair over the ruined side of his face. Jaskier so badly wanted to touch him. 

_ I have a thing for Witchers _ . The thought rose, unbidden, and he realized he was in deep shit.

“I uh, thought we were talking about Leona,” Jaskier said, voice hoarse. 

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Eskel purred. “Ask Lambert.” 

The Witcher tossed Jaskier a grin, hefted his sword, and walked off whistling one of Jaskier’s songs.

_ Fuck me _ . Jaskier slumped in his chair, trying to ignore the rabbit-fast beat of his heart and the low pull of heat in his groin. 

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice boomed over the stone and Jaskier shot up. Geralt was brushing snow off his shoulders as he came in a side door. “Geralt! You look, I mean uh…”  _ Fuck it _ .

He raced over to Geralt and with one swift move, tugged his head down. His lips were cold but Jaskier was determined to warm him up. No surprised sound from the Witcher this time, like earlier in the morning when Jaskier yanked him into a kiss in front of everyone. Just smooth leather gloves and an iron grip on his waist - and then cold stone on his back as Geralt pressed him into a wall. He was pinned.

He wanted more. Jaskier teased open Geralt’s mouth with his tongue and looped his arms around the Witcher’s neck, pulling him closer. One of Geralt’s hands slid down along his thigh, then to his knee, and Jaskier’s leg was hitched up.

“Guess I need to leave your sight more often.” Geralt’s gold eyes were warm, the edges crinkling pleasantly. “I wasn’t even gone that long.” He hummed and ducked his head until he could brush his lips over Jaskier’s pulse. “What’s got you excited?”

“You damn Witchers.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “Shoulda figured you weren’t a one Witcher man.”

That drew Jaskier up short and he stumbled over his words briefly before saying, “I….I blame Eskel. He teased me. You get me all hot and bothered and then he looms over me like some….some mountain.” Jaskier slumped. “I can’t help it.”

That made Geralt laugh. “He’s good at that. Always has been.”

“You sound like you know from experience.”

“I do.” He pulled back, examining Jaskier’s face. “You want me to ask him? I doubt he’d say no. Remember, it’s your call.”

Jaskier swallowed hard but nodded. “It’s not that you’re not enough! Please don’t think that, Geralt.”

Geralt pulled his glove off with his teeth and tossed it aside. He wanted to reassure Jaskier of so many things - of his affection, his desire, his dedication. He ran a finger down Jaskier’s jaw, watching it work, watching the man lean into his touch. Chasing it. “Don’t worry about me,” he said softly, tipping the bard’s chin up with that finger. “I told you, we share if that’s what you want. Eskel and I have been together many, many times. Mostly when we were younger. If that’s what you want, we can give it.” He tapped Jaskier’s lips with his finger. “We’re not normal men, and we don’t need normal arrangements. Just tell me.”

Geralt withdrew and Jaskier whined, grabbing for his hand. He let Jaskier guide his hand to his lips and got a kiss to the palm for it. “Must be this place and you Witchers,” Jaskier said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice. “And I said yes to spending all winter holed up in a fortress with a bunch of beautiful specimens. I must be mad.”

“Hmmm, was going to say hungry for it,” Geralt purred, pressing the body beneath him more into the wall. Jaskier groaned and pressed back, seeking friction. “Not gonna fuck you out in the open like this. We’d scar the cub.” He nipped at Jaskier’s neck, earning a gasp that sent a bolt of lightning to his cock. “Later? You, me….Eskel?”

“Yes,” Jaskier hissed. “Yes, please.”

Geralt chuckled and slowly - so slowly - back away from Jaskier. “You better go help in the library before Vesemir finds out you’re too busy chasing Witchers to earn your keep. You being mine won’t stop his ire.” He gave Jaskier an assessing look. “You sure?”

Jaskier nodded so fast he got dizzy. “Yes. I trust you, Geralt. I trust everyone here. And we’ve all spent too long alone to not take care of each other.”

Geralt’s heart twisted at the bard’s words. He was right, and it both hurt and didn’t to hear such truth from such a beautiful man. Witchers were needed but not trusted by so many humans and then this one…. Jaskier never did fit the mold. “Then we’re all lucky,” he said, backing away slowly to reclaim his glove. He let Jaskier feel his gaze scrape over his body before turning to walk back outside, disappearing into the snow.

* * *

“So how old are you?”

Leona gave a surprised bark of laughter. “I do admire your courage, child.” She motioned to the books piled by Ciri’s elbow. “Hand me the top two.”

Ciri obeyed, then tried again. “I mean, Vesemir’s a century and a half, or something like it. And you said you met him when he was young.”

Leona leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Quite old, darling. Old enough that if you put all four Witchers’ ages together, I’d still have a few years on them.”

That gave Ciri pause. “So you can live forever?”

Leona slotted the two books onto the shelf and tried to hide her smile. Ciri was bright and curious and oddly adaptable; traits Leona admired, especially in students. But thinking on her own lifespan was something she’d long left in her past. So she simply replied, “Technically yes. Though I don’t know of anyone in their right mind who wants that to happen. I exist, as all creatures do, to simply see out the next day and whatever excitement or banality it brings.”

Ciri didn’t seem fully satiated by this answer but stayed quiet as she and Leona continued to catalog the tomes in the library. After a half an hour, she piped up again, but this time in excitement. “That looks like my mother.”

Intrigued, Leona sat by her side and peered at the page. The illustration was incredibly detailed. A woman with long, wavy hair sat on a heavy throne, but her head was bare. At her feet were various objects - a candelabra, a pouch, horned skulls, a wolf mask, and a book. And on her lap was a tightly wrapped bundle, a tiny face barely peeking out.

“So is that...me?” Ciri turned wide eyes on Leona. 

And Leona didn’t want to jump to a conclusion. “If I may?” At Ciri’s nod, she took the page, which was loose, from the book and held it up. “I need time with this. What book was this in?” Ciri closed the book with a dull thud and they both saw the title: On Prophecies As Written by Z’altune, High Elven Priest. “Who the devil is Z’altune?” Leona murmured. When she saw Ciri’s surprised expression, she chuckled. “Old might mean venerated but it doesn’t mean all-knowing. This may not even be Pavetta. It could simply be some inane ramblings by someone who took too much fisstech.”

“Guess I shouldn’t get my hopes up. It’d be too easy to find answers in the one place we’re all wintering,” Ciri said, but her tone wasn’t morose. 

Leona put a hand on the girl’s arm. “We’ll figure it out. And in the meantime, you are free from your library duty for the morning. Vesemir wants you out at the training ring before lunch. But before you go…” Leona dug around in a pouch on the table and pulled out a needle. “Might I borrow a drop of your blood? I can only do so much with ancient books and papers.”

Ciri hesitated, her eyes darting back and forth between the needle and Leona. “Is it blood magic?”

Leona shook her head. “A bit, yes. But it’s also like a….tracking spell. It’s a little different in method than what Aretuza uses but the results are somewhat the same. I want to see if you are tied, in any way, to any items here. It might give us a clue as to your actual lineage.”

The look on Ciri’s face became conniving. “Are you going to do the same for Jaskier? With the whole fae thing?”

“I am. I’m going to do exactly the same - ask politely and hope he acquiesces.” But Leona could sense the girl’s wariness, so she tucked the needle back into the pouch and held it out. “Have Vesemir help you. Just a drop or two, and bring it to me within an hour. Whenever you’re ready.”

That seemed to mollify Ciri, so she gathered up the pouch and her cloak and left the library with a wave. Leona scrubbed her face with the heels of her palms and sighed. “I know you were listening, bard.”

After a moment, Jaskier peered around the door looking sheepish. “I mean, eavesdropping is one of my favorite pastimes. Have I ever told you about the time Valdo Marx, my nemesis, stole one of my songs? In vengeance I waited outside his room until he slept, stole all his smalls, and then -“ Jaskier saw the amused look on Leona’s face and grinned. “Well, we were fourteen and we still hate each other all these years later. Long story, not the time.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So, what are we working on?”

* * *

She was absolutely covered in dust. Probably the remains of a few dead bugs as well. And all Leona wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine. She’d hauled the water up to her room in one go (another benefit of vampire strength that might be trite, but worth it) but now had to wait for the water to heat. The tiny magical device she purchased was no larger than a matchbox but took forever to work; it was probably drained of most of its magic by now.

Leona stared at the stagnant water with a sigh. And she’d  _ really _ wanted a bath.

Leaving her room for the kitchens - and hopefully at least some hot water, if she was lucky - she turned the corner of the hall and bumped into Lambert. Leona hadn’t seen him since the previous night, as he hadn’t stayed very long after their tryst. Eskel had assured he was always like that, never wanted to stay long after the sweat had dried and the tremors stopped. Which Leona thought was a pity, because Lambert struck her as the kind of man who needed a bit of gentleness in his life. And that was something she and Eskel were happy to give. And since last night, she’d been wondering how to approach him, how to coax him into letting some of that tension go and relax.

No time like the present. He looked tired and worn and was favoring his right shoulder. And something inside her wanted to ease that tension out with her fingers and lips.

“Leona,” the Witcher said with a nod, his posture suddenly stiff.

She studied him for a long moment and just as he began to shift, she grabbed his hand and pulled him back to her room. “Wait, what the fuck -“ he spluttered, but it fell on deaf ears. She’d made up her mind in the moment and wasn’t about to be deterred unless he told her no.

Leona pushed him into the room and kicked her door shut. “I get the distinct feeling you weren’t entirely happy with last night’s arrangements,” she purred at him, stalking closer. “Now, I know you can get past me, and I also know you understand how to refuse. I’m not your captor, but I wouldn’t mind being your dashing knight in this scenario.”

Lambert looked utterly confused and a bit pissed off. “Do you always shove people about, just getting what you want?” he bit out, throwing up his hands in frustration. But he wasn’t leaving. 

“No. Only when they need a nudge.” She edged closer. 

“Did Eskel put you up to this? Piece of shit, I keep telling him to mind his own business -“ She touched his hand, just her fingers against his knuckles, and he cut off his own words with a choked, “What are you doing?”

She lifted her gaze to meet his, their unnatural eyes drawing each other in. “Waiting to see what you’ll do.”

Lambert was torn - he wanted her. He truly did. And in all honesty, she still scared him a little but that just tightened the coil of lust in his gut. Eskel was Eskel - sweet and giving and a hell of a good fuck.

Gods, the things that man’s cock could do to him.  _ Did _ to him. His hole tightened just thinking about it. And the previous night had been one of the dirtiest Lambert had ever taken part in. But some part of him craved contact of a different kind. Eskel knew him, would never be rough. Even if he begged for it.

(And he had begged for it)

Lambert wasn’t above asking Geralt to toss him around but the other Witcher had preoccupations of his own. But Leona….was tough. And yeah, a little scary. And the problem was he could still taste her on his lips this morning and it just made him want more.

“You’re propositioning me.” Statement, fact. Lambert desperately wanted both to be true.

A cheshire smile spread across her face. “Absolutely.”


	12. Interlude: The Rise of the Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Eskel reunite; Lambert confesses to Leona; and Vesemir has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s just a load of sexual tension and some very good making out.

Eskel leaned against the wall with a sigh. The sun was warm on his face, the stone cold on his back, and the steady sound of Geralt’s hammering rang in his ears. 

“You going to stand there while I work?”

Eskel grinned but didn’t open his eyes. He crossed his arms and nestled against the wall. “Yep.”

“Ass.”

“Said with love, I’m sure.”

“Uh huh.”

The hammering stopped and he cracked an eye open to see Geralt staring at him. His brother had long shucked his coat, warm from work and the midday sun, but he was just now rolling up his sleeves. And those eyes - bright gold, brighter than his own - were fixed on him. “Your hammer break?” he teased. “Or you just forget how?” The look Geralt gave him made him laugh harder. “Oh yeah Witcher, hammer that nail harder.”

Geralt fixed his eyes back down on the board - part of a frame for a new table for Vesemir - but said, “Don’t push your luck, brother.”

Eskel’s gut tightened at the slight growl in Geralt’s voice. _Here we go._ _Maybe the bard was right. Maybe Geralt did miss this._ _Missed him._ “Or what?”

Geralt didn’t answer, just refocused on the work in front of him. Eskel took great joy in watching Geralt work - hands steady, mind focused. The muscles in his thick forearms bunched and relaxed with each blow of the hammer. The fine veins in his hands stood out as he gripped the tool, which looked comically small compared to his bear-sized paws. 

And that white hair was falling down around his face, hiding that proud jaw and the stark line of his nose. Eskel was absolutely staring, and felt no shame about it. He also knew Geralt could feel that stare. Its heat and weight. The way it traced his body, a ghostly hand caressing places Eskel hadn’t touched since last winter. His palms itched, wanting to grab a handful of that hair and push it aside. Pull Geralt’s head back. Make him hiss and snap his teeth.

 _Goddammit, Geralt, why do you have to be so damn pretty?_ _I blame the bard for this_.

Which was truly unfair thinking on his part but Jaskier was a temptation, one Eskel was having a hard time ignoring. Doubly so because he had heard them last night, and he was sure they heard his little threesome as well.

“You want something, Eskel?”

Geralt was back to staring but this time, Eskel met his gaze. Let him see the way he was slumped against the wall, face passive but eyes hot on the hard lines of Geralt’s body. And like he expected, Geralt stood slowly and began to walk to him.

“So you _do_ want something,” Geralt said. The hammer was dropped unceremoniously on the ground as Geralt closed the distance between them. His voice held only a tinge of a growl, but it was enough to stir Eskel’s cock. 

He wondered what game Geralt wanted to play.

“Move your hair out of your face, brother.” Geralt’s jaw worked as he watched Eskel sweep his shaggy black hair off his forehead. “Better.”

Eskel stayed still, arms remaining crossed, body supported by the wall. _Apparently I have a thing for walls and hard bodies up against them_ , he thought with a grin. 

His smile made Geralt cluck his tongue. “Got something to grin at?” he asked, voice lower now. The distance between them closed off quickly and then Geralt rushed forward, slamming his palms on the stone on either side of Eskel’s head. “Been a while,” he growled softly, ghosting his breath over Eskel’s neck. “I missed you.”

Eskel bumped his temple against Geralt’s. “You had your hands full. I didn’t want to get in the way of you and Jaskier. And we’ve got a cub in the house now.”

“Hmmm. Kid’s fine. And Jaskier’s…” He met Eskel’s head bump with one of his own. “He’s mine. But he’d like to be ours.”

Eskel had suspected as much but to hear Geralt say it, and say it like this in his ear, made him groan with the tangible ecstasy of it. “Fuck Geralt, really?”

“Yeah.” Chapped, sun-warmed lips touched his jaw. “He asked for you.”

“Shit.” Eskel’s heart clenched hearing that.

“He trusts you, brother,” Geralt purred before nipping at the stubble on Eskel’s jaw. 

Eskel laughed. “He’s got a thing for Witchers, huh?” With a finger, he tipped Geralt’s face up to look at him, ran his other hand through that bright white hair. “What about Lambert?”

“We’ll get there. You know he’s always the last to come around. Got his hands full of vampire at the moment, I suspect.” Geralt’s hands landed on his hips and Eskel had bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bucking into that touch. “Tonight?”

Eskel swallowed hard. “Yeah. Fuck, Geralt.” He surged forward, pressed his lips to Geralt’s and was met with enthusiasm and a wet, warm tongue sliding into his mouth. They nipped and bit and stole the breath from each other’s lungs. Geralt shoved Eskel into the wall, pinning his hips in place so he could thrust against his thigh.

Eskel moaned into Geralt’s mouth; he wanted nothing more than to rip off their trousers, sending buttons flying, and spear himself on Geralt’s cock. No prep, no gentle fingering, just the burn and sensation of being opened so roughly, so shamelessly. He wanted to be full, feel Geralt’s cock thrust and pulse and spill inside him. “Tonight,” Geralt said against his mouth, a soft word spoken on his swollen lips. “We’ll make him watch.”

Clever fingers brushed his nipples and Eskel arched into the touch, a hiss escaping through his teeth. “Bastard,” he choked out, making Geralt give a rumbling laugh. 

“Tonight,” Geralt promised, a spark of playfulness in his eyes.

* * *

She was so close. Even though the vampire gave off no warmth, just being this close to her set Lambert’s nerve endings on fire. And the hand running down his chest was making her intentions very _very_ clear. He swallowed hard, looked down at her. “Don’t want a pity fuck,” he grumbled, but it was mostly facade.

“Lambert,” she purred, slowly steering him deeper into her chambers. “I do not fuck out of pity. I fuck those I desire.” Her hand traveled lower and Lambert fought back a groan. “And I also saw your pain a moment ago. Your shoulder?”

Lambert winced - more at the fact that she noticed than the injury itself. “Fuck, yeah I uh...was maybe showing Ciri a couple of moves and swung a bit too hard up onto the scaffolding.”

Leona clucked her tongue at him. “Perhaps we should fix that first before any more….strenuous activities.” She curled her fingers into his belt, stopping his backwards momentum. “Show me.”

That earned her a smile. “Want me to wiggle for you, shake my ass?” 

“Would you?”

Lambert ran a single finger over her exposed collarbone. “If you ask nicely.”

She grinned, flashing fangs. “Vampires don’t do anything nicely.”

“Oh, I don’t know sweetheart,” he purred, leaning into her. “You were gasping so prettily last night, riding my face and watching Eskel fuck me. Heard a ‘please’ or two in there.”

“Darling Lambert, show and tell first. Everything else can come later.” She leaned in, brushed her lips against his, and then withdrew all too quickly.

Lambert took his time, sliding out of his winter gear, letting it pool on the floor. The shirt he wore under all his layers was thin, transparent in some spots from age and time. And then he moved his hips, rolled and snapped them forward, bumping into hers. Then spun, pressed his ass against her, a sensuous wave of hard muscle and Witcher heat that Leona couldn’t resist. 

“Right shoulder?” she asked, not touching. Not yet.

“Yeah.”

The shirt was in the way, which would not do at all. It had to be ripped away, the cloth tatters fluttering to the floor. Then she saw the bruise from his impact with the scaffolding and hissed in sympathy. “Darling, this won’t do.”

Lambert shifted under her careful, cool touch, trying to not be riled by her ripping the shirt off his back. “That feels good, though.” Leona pressed below the bruise and he bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t all pain - the pleasure mixed in confused his body, making him want more instead of pulling away.

And then her touch was gone and Lambert was shivering in the frostbitten air. With Leona in his periphery, he moved closer to the fire, content to watch the fire dance over logs of walnut and oak. He loved the sound of it, the crackle and pop of the wood, the slight hiss of flame.

“You look good like that. Brooding stare into the fireplace. Powerful body waiting to be touched. Gorgeous jawline dotted with stubble.” Leona came back to his side silently, a pot of balm in her hand. “May I?” she asked, reaching around him to hold the pot out for his inspection.

Lambert recognized the scent instantly - evergreen and winter mint and rosemary, meant to lessen inflammation and start the healing process. One of Vesemir’s recipes, something he insisted all his boys carry. “Yeah,” he said softly with a nod. 

“I’m sorry I can’t warm it,” she replied as she scooped the balm onto her fingers. He waited for her touch and wasn’t surprised when it was cold but soothing, like taking the sting out of a burn. The pressure of her fingers dug into the bruise, heightening his awareness of her. No breath tickled his ear and he heard no heartbeat. And yet he was as aware of her as he would be of anyone touching him like this. 

Like they cared. Like they wanted him.

The pressure of her fingers kept him on the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain and he realized he was leaning back against her, chasing her touch. “Are you all right, Lambert?”

Her question was gentle, voice soft in his ear, and he grunted in reply. Then realized that was rude and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Can I touch you elsewhere?”

Lambert’s knees threatened to buckle. “Please.”

Leona slid her free hand around his chest, reaching up to scratch gently at his neck, then press in the soft, sensitive spot behind his ear. He hummed in response, leaning even further back against her. “Let’s sit. Right here in front of the fire.”

The bear rug was plush under them, already warm from the fire. She saw Lambert dig his hands into the fur as she touched him - one hand tending to his bruise, the other looped under his arm so she could slide it down his chest to trail through hair and skim over hard planes of muscle. “You are gorgeous, darling,” she whispered in his ear, watching him tip his head back until his cheek rested against hers. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t worthy, but you are.”

Lambert’s heart thudded in his chest, a staccato beat of desire and heartbreak warring with each other. She was being kind - too kind, and it hurt. Some part of him wanted to lash out, to demand _why_ , but he also knew she wasn’t trying to win him over or curry favor. Because quite simply she didn’t _need_ to.

That understanding - of how freely Leona was giving this to him - shocked him into stilling. And of course she noticed instantly. “Lambert?”

He turned to look at her, gaze dropping to her mouth. “Kiss me.” He took the pot of balm from her hand and set it aside. “Kiss me. Make me feel it.”

And he pulled her into his lap, pressing every line of his body against hers. Let her feel his desire and the steady beat of his heart. Leona arched against him, letting herself be swept up in his need. “Yes.”

Her hands went into his short hair, palming his skull and running over his scalp and he shivered in delight as he claimed her lips. She licked at the seam of his lips and he opened up to her, making delighted little sounds deep in his chest that reverberated through her. Lambert rocked against her, his hands tight on her waist. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, kissing each other with such deep desire it scalded. But as Leona ran her hand down over his neck to rest on his heart, he pulled back to look at her, eyes hooded and dark. “Want you to tie me up,” he said thickly. “Want you to use me.” He gave her a cagey look. “I assume you’ve done that before.”

Leona blinked owlishly at him, those strange, supernatural eyes locked on him. “I have,” she said slowly.

He could sense it before she said anything else, so he shook his head. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure. I am.” Lambert nuzzled against her, breathed in her smell, his fingers tightening hard enough to bruise. “I need it. I need…” He sucked in a quick breath, swallowed hard. “I need someone else to take control for a bit. Let me get out of my head.”

Leona remembered what Vesemir had once told her about Lambert, how confused and angry he’d been years ago upon coming back to Kaer Morhen and the wolves after the death of Coen. That kind of pain settled like a bad bone break, letting the wounds heal on the surface but leaving rot to fester underneath. It’d been years since that time but some part of Lambert still craved pain and had, thankfully, found an outlet for it that didn’t involve riding headlong into senseless, needless danger. Outside of the life of a Witcher, that is.

“I have supplies back in my room,” Lambert said, his keen eyes studying her face.

She grinned, fangs poking out over her lips. Lambert groaned at the sight. “Probably a good thing. I don’t exactly travel with such….specialized equipment.”

His cock jumped at the implication. “But you do have some.”

That got him an arch of one dark eyebrow. “Of course, darling. Regular sex gets rather boring after a few centuries.”

He laughed, a short, sharp bark of delight, then snaked his hands under her blouse. “Don’t go anywhere.” Then he kissed her hard, letting those fangs poke and prod his bottom lip. A bead of blood welled to the surface and at her silent question, he nodded.

Leona licked his lip, drawing in the taste of him. “Go. Quickly.”

* * *

“Jaskier, look!” Ciri pulled Jaskier over to the window with a bright smile. “I’ve never seen one in person.”

Jaskier peered over her head to where the bull moose was slowly tromping in front of the treeline at the edge of the western courtyard. “Oh my. Ciri, be very grateful we’re way up here. Far, _far_ out of its reach.”

“Mousesack always said they were mean.”

“And that is something I definitely don’t want to gain firsthand knowledge of.” He smiled down at her. “And aren’t you supposed to be working with Vesemir in the alchemy lab?”

Ciri picked up the basket at her feet. Holly leaves, frozen wild grapes, and other plant effluvia Jaskier could see - and name (thanks to Geralt’s training) - were neatly stacked inside. “Come on then,” he chided softly. 

He walked by her side as she talked about what she was learning, her enthusiasm infectious. The day was growing shorter and late afternoon cold stuck to him like a leech, sucking away his body heat. He shivered and wrapped his arms around his middle. “I’m sorry, how are you not freezing?”

Ciri paused, considered, then shrugged. “I mean, it’s cold, but not awful.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes skyward. “Save me from Witchers and princesses who leave poor bards to shiver in the cold.” It made her laugh, which was exactly his goal. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ciri.”

She snuck in close to his side and gave him a hug. “I’m glad you’re here too, Jaskier. Or….is it Julian?”

Jaskier froze, eyes wide. “And where did you hear that?”

Ciri shrugged. “I uh….” Then she grinned, all mischief. “Or would you prefer Viscount?” 

“That’s it!” He bolted after her as she raced down the hall, their laughter echoing off the stones.

When they skidded to a breathless stop near where Vesemir was working, bent over a table and a flask of something bubbling in his hand, he turned with a scowl. “You two made the table shake. I’d prefer if you did your horsing around somewhere else.”

Jaskier was bent over panting, but he straightened enough to strike a pose, hands on hips. “I think that’s an insult to horses, Vesemir. You know Roach has more grace and poise in one hoof than we do in our entire bodies.”

Vesemir snorted but Jaskier caught the little smirk on his face. He would mark that as a win for him. “Yes, well...cub, did you do as I asked?”

Ciri came to his side and started handing over ingredients as Jaskier watched, intrigued. Vesemir dropped two holly sprigs and one - just one - frozen wild grape into the flask, putting a protective hand on Ciri to make her back up. “Now, let’s see….”

The concoction bubbled, then flashed green. Then blue. And finally with a pop of sparks, the liquid settled in the bottom of the flask. “Ah, good. Good.” He smiled at Ciri. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Jaskier leaned forward. “Dare I ask what that is?”

The smile on Vesemir’s face spread. “The beginning of our resurrection, bard. The house of the wolves might yet rise again.”


	13. Of Boundaries and Smelling Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier confess their feelings, then establish boundaries with Eskel. Leona gives Lambert the release he craves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bring on the polyamory! Witchersexual Jaskier has arrived.

Geralt caught Jaskier as he was headed upstairs after talking with Ciri and Vesemir. He snagged Jaskier’s arm from around the corner, much to the bard’s delight. “Well, hello,” Jaskier said, grin as bright as the sunlight streaming through the windows of the old fortress.

“Hmmm.” Geralt looked down at him, taking in the deep grey vest and white shirt with rolled up sleeves. He looked _good_ , but Jaskier always looked good. That was half the problem, half the temptation. “Wanted to talk.”

“About Eskel.”

Geralt nodded. “I was thinking tonight but if that’s too soon-“

“No, tonight is good.” Jaskier was still grinning. “I’ve been thinking about it. Probably too much. We should all be on the same page.” The grin dropped and so did Jaskier’s eyes. “This is new to me personally but I’ve heard stories from others. Oxenfurt isn’t exactly a bastion of upright morality.” He smirked and Geralt caught that mischievous glint he loved so much. “Horizontal debasement maybe.”

Geralt snorted. “A bunch of horny young men locked away with each other? I wouldn’t know what that was like.”

“Oh really?”

“No idea.” Geralt felt his smile grow, shook his head. “But Jas, the thing with Eskel…” He sighed, scraped his hair back from his face. “Eskel’s a good man. Kind, caring. Won’t get rough unless you ask and even then, he’s careful about it. You and I know our boundaries, and he would never go against them.” He lifted one of Jaskier’s hands and placed it on his chest. “You’re always safe with me. With us. One word, and we stop.”

Jaskier nodded. “Like what we do. I know. Geralt, you worry too much.” He pulled Geralt’s head down so he could press a kiss to those windburned lips. “You all might be Witchers, but you made one mistake.”

“Hmmm?”

“You told me I have the power in this situation. Let my already large ego get far too big for its own good.” Geralt rolled his eyes and Jaskier sobered. “But I know. I do. I trust you.”

That struck home and Geralt sucked in a breath. Finally, he said “One more thing,” while letting his lips skim across Jaskier’s cheek. “I care for you, Jas. A lot. Maybe too much.” He pulled back, stared hard into Jaskier’s eyes. “Just because they’re my brothers doesn’t mean they’re entitled to what we have. This would only be because you allow it. Not for any other reason.”

He expected Jaskier to do anything but simply stare at him. The man was _never_ without words, even when he said he was. There was a keen look in his eyes that scraped over Geralt, making him feel raw and _seen_.

Jaskier put his hands on either side of Geralt’s face, thumbs soothing over his stubbled jaw. “All this muscle and power and strength, and yet you stand here and rip open your chest and show me that beating heart inside. You’re a marvel, Geralt.” The kiss was nothing more than a brush of lips, but Geralt felt it lodge near his heart. “I care for you too. Deeply. Years by your side and every time you came back covered in entrails, every time you let me sleep curled around your back because it was cold….years of little things added up, tiny pieces of you I kept close. And before I knew it, those little pieces became something bigger and different.” His eyes shone and he grinned. “I love you too, you big lummox.”

Geralt surged against him, crushing their mouths together, earning a startled noise from Jaskier. The bard’s words banged around in his brain, fighting for space in the parts of him he’d locked away for so long. It hurt, and Geralt never wanted that feeling to go away. “I love you,” he whispered. 

Jaskier wanted to melt against him, never leave the circle of those powerful arms. Even the footsteps coming around the corner didn’t move them. Geralt reluctantly looked down the hall, still not moving his forehead from Jaskier’s.

And in the second surprise in the span of minutes, he watched a flushed, shirtless Lambert stride toward, then past them, open the door to his room, and disappear inside. The door was still open and he could feel the question burning in Jaskier’s mind.

“Wha-“

Geralt put a finger on Jaskier’s lips. “I have no idea.” He didn’t want to tell Jaskier that Lambert smelled of rum and sweat and copper.

Lust and exertion and Leona.

Lambert was so keyed up that under all of those scents, Geralt caught a whiff of desperation. It was such a distinctly _Lambert_ scent that he knew it instantly. 

There were noises coming from inside, rustling of cloth and banging of wood on wood. Now Jaskier was nearly vibrating in his arms, alight with curiosity. “I have to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jaskier pouted and Geralt wanted to bite his bottom lip for it. “Fine but he looked kind of wild, Geralt. Are you sure he’s okay?”

Geralt nodded thickly and steered Jaskier down the hall in the opposite direction. “He is. Trust me.”

* * *

Jaskier squirmed all through dinner, Geralt’s hand on his thigh the only thing keeping him from launching across the table at Eskel. The talk they’d had only served to heat his blood and from the looks Eskel was shooting them, Geralt had gotten to him, too. 

Curiously missing from dinner were Lambert and Leona. No one said anything, not even Ciri. But they were all wondering.

Toward the end of the meal, Leona sauntered downstairs in what would be considered loose, perhaps even _messy_ attire for her. 

Eskel looked down with a quicksilver grin and focused on Ciri’s chatter, but it was impossible to ignore the smell of sex and satisfaction all over the vampire. Leona must have been conscious of how she smelled, as she kept her distance while filling a plate to heaping.

The air was charged, every wolf at the table bristling with awareness. Jaskier felt something frisson through Geralt, making him shiver. He put a steadying hand on Geralt’s thigh; but his gaze shot over to the Witcher when his fingers brushed a hard, hot length laying thick against Geralt’s leg. Geralt’s hand snapped down on his, fingers curled tight, thumb brushing over Jaskier’s pulse.

_Oh._

Leona gave them all a smile - a slow, lazy, fully-fanged thing that dripped with sex. “Boys,” she drawled before disappearing into the darkness at the top of the stairs.

“Can I be her when I grow up?” Ciri asked, spellbound.

“Absolutely not,” Geralt said, his voice a little thin, making Ciri laugh.

“Come on, cub,” Vesemir said after clearing his throat. Jaskier saw a flush around the old Witcher’s neck and hid a smile behind his hand. “We’ve got a chess game to finish.” Ciri jumped up, grabbed a glass of wine, and let Vesemir lead her away. 

Eskel shifted in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier took a deep breath, tried to get his heartrate to slow. It didn’t work. “Eskel?”

Eskel pushed his chair back and spread his legs. “Come sit with me.

* * *

_Hours earlier_

In any other frame of mind, Lambert would have teased Geralt and Jaskier about being so cuddly out in the open when they had a perfectly good bedroom steps away. But he was ravenous, beside himself with need and heady lust, his body a pulsing, throbbing thing that overrode his normal modus operandi of snark and quick wit. So much that he barely gave them a passing glance before ducking into his room and rifling through the trunks near the fireplace.

He hadn’t occasion to use the items much, except when Geralt was in a _very_ particular mood and only after he pleaded for it. Lambert swore Geralt got off more on his begging than he did on the act of restraint, but Geralt had always been that way. More easily keyed up by words than action, which made a kind of sense. They were creatures of action, and words spent precious energy.

Which was one of the big reasons why Jaskier made so much goddamn sense. Outside of the man’s perfect round arse and his big, blue eyes…. That tenor voice, the sweet lilt of it that made some tiny part of Lambert want to curl up in his lap and just listen to him talk; it was no wonder Geralt fell for the man.

And then there was Leona. The one who looked at him like he mattered, like he had value, and then as though a switch had been thrown, was purring and growling and rubbing up against him, her soft lips and sharp teeth claiming him, marking him. She was unique, singular. She could make the world fall in love with her, could have her choice of partners from anyone, mortal or not.

And she was choosing him. A Witcher. It made no sense.

His fingers found the soft cuffs of the restraints and relief made him sag, his spine going loose. Just the suggestion the restraints implied kicked off something in his body, let his mind quiet from the thoughts that raced there constantly. Some part of him craved this. Needed it.

Lambert gathered all the pieces together, shoved them in a bag, and left his room, the snow blowing outside catching his eye as he raced back down the now empty hallway. 

The door to Leona’s room was as he’d left it and when he entered, she was stripping out of her top layers, leaving her in a thin chemise and leggings so tight they looked painted on. “Started without me?”

Leona beckoned him forward with finger and he obeyed, twisting the long silk ropes in his hands a few times to show her their weight and flexibility. She nodded approvingly, running a hand over them. “No sense in only one of us being comfortable,” she retorted with a teasing smile. “These are gorgeous, Lambert. I approve.” He flushed and turned away to hide his smile, but she stopped him. “First order, Witcher. Don’t ever hide from me. I want to see it.”

Lambert nodded eagerly and handed over ropes. “Where do you want me?”

She grinned. “It’s a four post bed, darling. What do you think?”

As Leona worked, she kept a close watch on his breathing and his face. They’d set up a safe word and discussed precautions before he’d raced off to his room, and now, as he was relaxing into the mattress under her careful ministrations, Leona saw flickers of bliss cross his strong, handsome features. The cares, the worries, the pains were slowly being wiped away and replaced with something kinder. Gentler. He _needed_ this, and more than for just a physical release.

Once secured by his wrists and ankles, Leona double checked that the soft fur inside the cuffs was the only part of the rig touching him, lest something catch or bruise. Then she put her hands on the waist of his trousers.

“Leona,” he whispered, arching into her soft touch.

“Say please, Witcher.” Her voice cracked out, razor-sharp across his face. 

Lambert squirmed, arched again. There was already a bead of sweat on his temple and when Leona leaned down to lick it away, he keened. “Please.”

She ran her fingers through his short hair, scratched gently at the stubble on his face. “Good wolf.”

* * *

Jaskier did as he was told, knowing Geralt was watching. It was a sign of his care - and his interest - that his Witcher sat in his seat and didn’t interfere. If he needed to, he would, but Jaskier wasn’t worried about Eskel. It was a matter of moments to slip from his own seat and slink around the big dining table to stand before the other Witcher.

Eskel watched him, frustratingly gorgeous as he sprawled in his chair, thighs open in invitation. It was a little like standing before a bear and waiting for it to eat you, but no bear ever looked like this. Jaskier stepped forward and when his knees were level with Eskel’s, the other man reached out and tipped Jaskier’s chin up with a finger. The touch was light, but his stare sat like a weight on Jaskier’s chest. He pulled his touch away and Jaskier swayed forward. “You okay, Jaskier?”

Jaskier nodded. Eskel was different in so many ways from Geralt, and it went beyond mere physicality. Eskel was larger, taller, more thickly built. Geralt could slim down or bulk up based on the availability of coin and food (a fate Jaskier saw happen more than once and swore it never would again). Eskel looked like all that brawn was simply part of who he was, as if his very bones were denser. 

But apart from looks, Eskel radiated a different kind of energy. The man had an infinite well of patience and a sound, logical mind that he downplayed frequently. Jaskier knew Geralt often played the ‘big dumb Witcher’ role to get by in villages low on trust, but Eskel almost seemed ashamed of his intelligence. It was criminal, in Jaskier’s opinion, for such a smart man to be ashamed of his own mind. He’d already slaughtered them all at chess and Geralt had often told him Eskel was the tactician; a student of history, both men and military.

Geralt had also told him Eskel was a romantic, a heart of gold and honey inside that massive barrel chest and that Eskel could easily have a lover in every major town but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. A big, handsome, intelligent, _lonely_ Witcher, and he was allowed to touch him? Jaskier was honored.

So now as he stood before Eskel and saw the flare of concern on his face when he didn’t answer quickly, he scrambled to fix it. “I’m good. Better than good.” Wood creaked behind him; the sound was followed by boots on flagstones. _Geralt checking on me_.

Geralt’s warmth curled around his back but Jaskier kept his focus on Eskel. Eskel gave them a calculating look, then grinned and said, “Then my lap’s still empty.”

Without a word, Jaskier slid onto those thick thighs, wrapping an arm around Eskel’s neck. The slow, steady thrum of Eskel’s heart beat under his palm. “He said you were warm,” the Witcher purred, carefully not touching Jaskier. 

Something passed between Eskel and Geralt, a silent language Jaskier didn’t speak and couldn’t translate to save his life. Whatever it was made Geralt nod, and then Eskel said softly, “I won’t mark you, but can I smell you?”

 _Still not the strangest question I’ve ever been asked. And I know what scent is to Wolf Witchers, how important it is_. “Yes.” Jaskier inwardly cursed himself for sounding so breathless but Eskel didn’t seem bothered by it. 

It was the barest touch, just a brush of Eskel’s nose on the side of his neck, and yet Jaskier shivered into it. “Shit. Geralt, you bastard.” Eskel’s voice was thin and Jaskier could feel that heart under his hand kick up a notch.

Geralt snorted. “My warning wasn’t enough?”

“Would someone like to clue me in here, because I’m feeling rather left out of the conversation. And I’m the one being sniffed by all you Witchers.” Jaskier really wasn’t trying to pout but it was difficult when he was trapped between such heart-stoppingly gorgeous men who were bent on driving him mad.

Geralt shifted, his face twisting into an expression Jaskier had only seen a few times. “You know we’re sensitive to smells, Jas. It’s uh….heightened senses, part of the Wolf Witcher thing.”

Eskel leaned his head down until his forehead rested against Jaskier’s temple. “Geralt’s told you that you smell good, yeah?”

“Yes, but -“

Eskel inhaled, then exhaled, stirring Jaskier’s hair. “And we don’t just go around sniffing people randomly. If someone is one of ours, we know their scent. Can use it to track them, even notice changes in their mood or sense if they’re ill.”

Jaskier thought about that for a moment. “I suspected the mood thing, and being able to smell illness is certainly useful. I don’t understand what the big deal is -“

“Us. You smell like us. Mostly Geralt. Leather and wine and sword oil. And it’s all mixed up with your scent.” Eskel’s voice was lower now, silky and caressing Jaskier’s ear and he squirmed in the bigger man’s lap. A brief glance at Geralt - just to assess how he was - gave him an eyeful of rigid spine and working jaw and hands balled against his thighs. _I’m not sure who is more turned on here out of the three of us_ , Jaskier thought a little giddily.

“And I smell like….” Jaskier turned his wicked smirk on to Geralt, who groaned.

“Spices. Apples. Sometimes even the music you play gets in there.” Geralt took a step, then another. “It’s like being able to taste colors or emotions. Like that.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “Good to know I’m naturally delicious-smelling.”

Both wolves growled at him; the hair stood up on the back of his neck. _Prey. I’m prey right now and I’m going to willingly let them both devour me_.

Feeling bold and more than a tad dizzy with lust, Jaskier slipped from Eskel’s lap and held out his hand. “I’m cold and I don’t want to stay down here a moment longer.”

Eskel gave his head a shake as though he was trying to realign his thoughts, snap them back into place. “Mine or yours?”

Geralt curled around Jaskier’s back, one hand sliding down his hip. Jaskier leaned into the touch appreciatively. “Eskel’s bed is bigger than mine, Jaskier.”

“Asked and answered, then,” Jaskier replied, giving Geralt’s hand a squeeze before rocketing off through the room shouting, “Come get me, wolves!”

Eskel’s mouth dropped open in surprise but he took off, laughing, chasing the bard and his brother through their home.


	14. A Heart of Gold and Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's some smutty smut fun times, y'all. We're nearing the last few chapters, so expect me to crank up the smut and try to finish whatever nonsense semblance of a plot there is.

“Do I make you nervous, bard?”

“Not a bit.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Trapped in Eskel’s room with no way out save through the room’s owner, Jaskier backed up until the post of the bed met his back. From the widening of Eskel’s eyes and the tensing of his jaw, he didn’t seem to mind it was a game. An act.

Just like how Geralt let him slip out his grasp to dodge Eskel and lead the big man down the hallway to that room. And just like how Geralt was hanging back in the doorway, watching.

“I don’t know,” Eskel said softly. “Most people get nervous when backed into a corner by a Witcher.” He ran the backs of two fingers over the deep scar across his right cheek. “Especially one who looks like me.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “You don’t make me nervous.” He gripped the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the covers. It was the only way to ground himself, and keep from launching at Eskel. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

Neither man wrapped in the middle of this game saw how hard Geralt bit his lip. The pain kept him there and present in the moment. It kept him from holding Jaskier in his arms and pinning him down for Eskel’s touch. Jaskier had wanted this little game and Geralt could keep his hands to himself in order to make that happen.

But he also knew Eskel. Somewhere, underneath the teasing, growling tone, real hurt lingered. He’d taken on those scars years ago but he never used them to his advantage unless presented with no other option. He was too kind, too even-keeled. Geralt loved that about him.

Eskel and his big goddamn heart. Watching him lean into something darker and seductive made Geralt’s heart race, but he shot Jaskier a warning glance. It was acknowledged with the tiniest nod.

“No cheating,” Eskel growled, spinning on his heel to march across the room and press Geralt into the door. “You can’t give him an unfair advantage, Geralt.” Geralt huffed but let Eskel pin his hands to the door, his fingers curling around Geralt’s wrists. “You said you’d behave.”

Geralt snapped his teeth and pushed forward, testing Eskel’s grip. “Changed my mind.”

Eskel’s eyes softened for a moment. It was a private thing between the two of them, this silent communication. At Geralt’s nod, Eskel grit his teeth and spat out, “Then you’ll get on your back and make him cry while I fuck him from behind.”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier breathed, two pink spots of color rising on his cheeks. “Oh my gods.”

Eskel shot him a look. “Does that mean yes?”

Jaskier nodded, swallowed thickly, then spread his legs in invitation. Eskel let Geralt go and watched him stalk toward Jaskier, hands immediately going for the bard's shirt as Jaskier toed off his boots. Eskel watched Geralt strip him ruthlessly, fingers practiced at all the little buttons and catches.

Naked and panting, Jaskier arched into Geralt’s touch, but he kept his eyes on Eskel. With a grin, Eskel palmed his clothed cock, rubbing the heel of his hand up and down. He slipped the waist of his trousers down, letting Jaskier get a good look at the wings of his hipbones and the tip of his leaking cock before Geralt manhandled him onto his knees.

Geralt slipped under Jaskier, running his hands all over that temptation of a body, while Jaskier whined and moaned and thrust into empty air. “Patience,” Geralt growled, angling his body so his feet hung off the bed and his face was near Jaskier’s hips.

“Oh, that’s good,” Eskel purred appreciatively, stripping out of his own clothing as he walked toward them. “That’s real good, Geralt.” He dug under the pillow for the bottle of oil he knew was there and rolled it toward his brother, who snatched it up. “Get him ready for me. I want him loose and open and wet.”

Jaskier bent until his head was resting on Geralt’s stomach. “I’m going to die.”

“Just a little bit,” Eskel bit out, taking a moment to run his hand down Jaskier’s trembling flank. “Just a little.” He let his fingers drift so near to the edge of one cheek and Jaskier shuddered. “You know the rules, right?”

“Uh huh. Yes.” Jaskier’s head bobbed on his neck before he buckled as Geralt’s oiled fingertips slid along the inside of his thigh. “I do, I do. Oh my gods I do.”

“Good.” Eskel waited until the right moment before his hand cracked down on Jaskier’s ass as Geralt pulled him open and circled his hole. The howl he let out made them both growl. 

So Eskel did it again.

Jaskier sobbed with pleasure, his babbling ringing in Eskel’s ears. “Please  _ please _ . I need it. Need you. Fuck me.”

A third, then fourth strike made Jaskier’s ass cherry red and it throbbed under Eskel’s palms. As he soothed, Geralt pressed a finger inside. Jaskier crumpled, face slack with want. He put his head on his stacked forearms and panted, moving his hips as Geralt thrust into him and mouthed at his cock.

Eskel watched them - the ease with which they moved together, and how Geralt knew the right way to lick and twist and curl around and into Jaskier’s body to draw out those beautiful sounds he was making. Geralt had his free arm wrapped around Jaskier’s middle, holding him up. It was such a small gesture that one might not notice it for all the sounds of slick and moaning echoing in the room. But Eskel watched them, admiring every single little thing between them; he knew what they had was special. And because Geralt loved him, he was given this gift.

“Jaskier,” he said softly, bleeding some of the edge out of his voice. “Look at me.”

It took a moment but Jaskier finally lifted his head and saw Eskel’s naked form inches from him. His gaze froze on Eskel’s cock, eyes wide. “I’m going to die,” he repeated, all flushed face and velvet voice and swollen lips begging for more.

Eskel crouched, leaned in, and kissed him. He matched the intensity of his kiss with the shudders wracking Jaskier’s body from Geralt’s ministrations, letting up when he shook particularly hard. He didn’t want to overstimulate Jaskier or make him wince; his heart could never take pushing anyone too far, especially not someone so special. “I’m going to take such good care of you,” he purred in Jaskier’s ear before coming to the side of the bed. He tapped Geralt’s knee in warning; Geralt slithered out from under Jaskier and repositioned him so Eskel could slide in behind. 

But before Eskel climbed onto the bed, Geralt snagged his wrist and reeled him. From the corner of his eye, Eskel saw Jaskier watch them with open interest, fingers clutching at the blankets. Geralt tasted like smoke and Jaskier’s musk, heady and delicious and he licked inside over and over again as Geralt clung to him. With one hand, he tilted Geralt’s head so he could suck his way down that thick neck, feeling his pulse jump as he bit down.

Geralt moaned, shoved Eskel back, and went to work on his own clothes, flinging them off with abandon. “Got a better idea,” he growled, coming in for another shattering, breathless kiss before reaching out to tip up Jaskier’s chin. When Geralt pushed his thumb into Jaskier’s mouth, the bard nodded feverishly, so Geralt moved to stand in front of him while Eskel, grinning madly, took up his place behind.

Jaskier gave one whimper before diving for Geralt’s cock; he was rewarded with insistent hands in his hair and the growl of the White Wolf. Eskel bit back a groan as he pulled Jaskier’s cheeks apart, examining the sheen of oil there. He nudged Jaskier’s knees apart with his own and pressed in.

No moan, no whimper. Just a sigh from the man between them as he sucked Geralt’s cock while taking Eskel’s. He was trapped. Filled. Giving and receiving pleasure with an intensity he’d never experienced before and Jaskier was quickly rolling his eyes up into his head, anchored only by his own hands and the bodies of two of his Witchers.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Eskel ground out, his hips pressed into Jaskier’s ass. “I said prep him, Geralt.”

Geralt smirked. “I did. He’s always like that.”

“ _ Fuck _ .”

Geralt carded his fingers through Jaskier’s thick hair, making the bard look up at him as his lips stretched around Witcher cock. “Aren’t you, Jas? Always so tight. So eager to please.” 

Jaskier responded by swallowing, letting Geralt feel the muscles of his throat working him over. Geralt hung his head with a groan, twisting strands of Jaskier’s hair in his fists.

And Eskel got to watch them while he took the bard from behind, hips circling and driving Jaskier mad. The man kept trying to thrust back, but with his attention split, Eskel was able to guide him to slow down by cupping his hands around Jaskier’s hips. It was maddening, the heat of the body accepting him and taking him in coupled with the show of Geralt trying not to face-fuck their partner. 

Jaskier might not have been able to talk, but he made the  _ filthiest _ sounds. Eskel was going to be hearing them in his dreams for months.

After several tortuous minutes, Geralt stilled and pulled away from a whimpering Jaskier. “Turn him over,” Geralt rasped as Jaskier panted, jaw hung open and head sagging. Eskel lifted the bard like he weighed nothing, folded his legs up against his chest, and slammed back in. 

“Didn’t make you come,” Jaskier slurred, looking up and back at Geralt with a lust-addled grin on his face, his body rocking back and forth as Eskel took him. “Come on, Geralt.” He wiggled his fingers in the air near Geralt’s hips, who grabbed them and held on.

“Behave,” he growled, “or you don’t get to wear it like you want.”

Jaskier whined but stilled his hands. Eskel could hardly believe what he was hearing but one look at the two of them proved his ears still worked. Jaskier was panting, open mouthed, eyes hungry on Geralt and the cock bobbing in front of his face. He watched Geralt watching Jaskier, something very close to adoration softening those rugged features. 

And as Geralt began to stroke himself over Jaskier’s neck and chest, Eskel had to refocus on his own pleasure, the way Jaskier’s body sucked him in, holding him in its hot, wet embrace. He tipped Jaskier’s hips up and the bard groaned, rolling his eyes to Eskel, who grinned. “Yeah? There?”

Jaskier nodded. “There.”

“Good.” He thrust in hard and fast, giving the man just a taste of Witcher strength and got to listen to every little punched out gasp be wrenched from his throat. Eskel didn’t know where to look anymore - the vision of Geralt stroking himself was almost too much, but Jaskier was perfectly, beautifully sweaty and red-faced and so, so eager.

He fell forward on his hands and opened his mouth. Jaskier gave a strangled groan but Geralt just chuckled and said, “Dirty bastard,” before leaning forward so Eskel could suck the tip of his cock into his mouth.

“How’s the show, bard?”

Jaskier couldn’t talk. Couldn’t  _ think _ for the sake of what was right before his eyes. He clutched at Geralt’s free hand and dug his nails into Eskel’s scalp and held on.


	15. Satisfaction and Saviors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're heading into the last few chapters! I can't resist a HEA so while it may not fall in line with the grimdark aspects of the Witcher, these wolves are going to get a second chance.

When Leona knocked on Eskel’s door, Lambert in tow, she could smell the satisfaction on the other side. “Someone’s been busy,” she said softly, earning her a chuckle from Lambert. “Open up, Witchers. I’m bringing your lost lamb back to the fold.”

The door cracked open and Leona was hit with the scent of sex and wine and wood smoke, nearly reeling from the way it curled in her gut. She grimaced and backed up, pushing Lambert forward with a gentle hand. “Go on,” she said, turning away.

“Hey, what’s -” The scent hit him and he groaned. “Holy shit.” Leona was several steps down the hall when he caught her by the hand. “I thought you were going to stay.”

“I can’t. Not like that.” She waved a hand back at him, still not looking his way. “Go. Go be with your pack.”

Leona was scooped up in his arms. “Leona,” he said softly, getting a flash of fang before she covered her face with her hands. “No one here cares. But I won’t hold you against your will.” He nuzzled at her temple. “Do you want down?”

Gods she was weak. This man made her ache with it. “No.”

He managed to pull one of her hands away, knowing all the while she was letting him do so. “Then we’ll go.”

Lambert moved into the room and he and Leona were greeted by the sight of Geralt laying sprawled in the middle of the huge bed, a sheet barely covering him as it draped over one thigh. He had a dozing Jaskier cradled in one arm while he stroked Eskel’s face with the back of the opposite hand while they kissed.

They were both staring. Geralt didn’t seem to care as he rolled one bright amber eye over to them. Lambert cleared his throat and said teasingly, “Look what I found. She seemed to think we wouldn’t like her with us.”

Leona grumbled something and he laughed. Eskel broke off from his kiss and patted the bed. “Give her here.”

She growled at him. “I’m not in the best state. You all...your scent…”

Lambert deposited her on the bed and set about stripping out of his clothes, eager to cuddle up beside everyone else. “Hey, it’s okay,” Eskel said soothingly, turning her face to him. “We’ve seen it. No one went running for the hills.”

She nodded at Jaskier, who was stirring beside Geralt. “He hasn’t.”

“I have. Watched you beat up Geralt,” the bard mumbled sleepily, moving over as Lambert tapped him on the hip. As soon as Lambert was settled, Jaskier turned his face into Lambert’s shoulder, which made the younger Witcher chuckle.

“He’s always cold,” Geralt said fondly. “Shouldn’t be now.”

“Never underestimate my ability to bitch about my fingers and toes turning blue,” Jaskier retorted, burrowing deeper into Lambert’s body heat.

“Leona,” Eskel said, drawing her attention back to him. “What do you need?”

She brushed away his concern. “Nothing. You know that.”

“And yet, you look like you need to eat.”

Leona gave him a droll look. “I’m over five hundred, Eskel. I can go decades without eating.”

“But you could. You want to.”

She groaned, an exasperated sound that rattled up from the depths of her chest. “You all smell like sex! It’s suffocating. Maddening even.” She ran a hand along her jaw, then her tongue over her elongated fangs, her gums almost white with tension. “It makes my teeth itch.”

“Sex or blood?”

Leona whipped her head around to look at Geralt, who was smiling lazily at her. “What?”

He shrugged. “Do you want sex or blood?” He smirked. “Or both?”

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion and Eskel almost laughed at the picture of an ancient vampire looking even remotely consternated. There was a look in her eyes, something hungry but also worried. “I can’t ask that,” she murmured, turning away again to slip off the bed. “I didn’t think it would get to me but I…”

She was gone from the room quicker than any of them could track.

Geralt flopped down on the bed. “Fuck.” He looked to Eskel. “Any advice?”

Eskel shrugged but he was bothered, too. “I offered, she took. But we were already -”

“He was balls deep in me at the time,” Lambert said, ruffling Jaskier’s hair as the bard snuffled and dug in more. 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t toying with her.” He gestured to his barely clothed and evidently hard cock. 

Eskel shook his head and curled around the White Wolf, lending his warmth and his touch. “Don’t worry about it right now. We’ll make it up to her.”

* * *

Leona was suddenly next to Vesemir as he poured over several books at a table in the library. “Figured you were with the wolves,” he said, moving a bottle of wine closer to her. “But your smell says otherwise.”

Leona pulled him to his feet and while he didn’t protest, Vesemir looked a tad put out by her yanking on him. But one look at her dark eyes and the tips of her fangs just visible made his protest dry up in his throat. “I need to run. Come with me.”

He chuckled and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Leona, I’m old. This body doesn’t work like that anymore.”

She chucked him under the chin with a soft hand. “I wanted to talk to you about that.” Leona glanced down at the books and saw what she had been suspecting. “If you want to save your wolves, you’ll need to be around.” Vesemir opened his mouth to protest but she stopped him. “You know that. Who are you going to ask, Geralt? Eskel? You’re the progenitor of the current line, Vesemir. And what we talked about yesterday still holds true.”

He grumbled. “I haven’t told them yet. Aretuza is sure they can help make more Witchers, but it’s at the same cost as before.” He shook his head sadly. “I can’t bear to lose any more like that. It was hard enough, and I want to put it behind me.”

“I know.” She leaned in to nuzzle against him, taking comfort in the steady beat of his heart. “I’ve another way, perhaps.” She pressed a vial into his hand. “From Reginald.” Then another. “Saffron.” Then another. “Milvana.” Soon Vesemir was holding a dozen small vials of deep red-black blood, thick as molasses. “You shouldn’t have to use children like that ever again.” Leona sighed, brushed his hair back from his face. “But it should start with you.”

His brow wrinkled, mouth turned down in a frown. “I know. I know that. But they’ll never forgive me if something happens.”

“That’s why I’m getting help.” Leona grinned suddenly, sharp as a knife. “Remember Ludanis?”

Vesemir barked out a laugh. “Hard to forget that one.”

And she put one more vial in his hands. “He’s the reason I’m here. And he’s the reason we have all of these. Aretuza only cares about Aretuza. Witchers are still useful.” There was a glint in her eye and Vesemir had learned long ago that usually meant trouble. The smart, crafty kind. “What if you weren’t?”

* * *

“I should tell them,” Vesemir said softly, staring down at the bottled blood as they stood in the garden and looked out over the dark forest. “They should know.”

“I agree.” Leona held out her hand and he poured the vials in it. They were tucked into a pouch which she gave to him. “But come. Run with me. Just once more as a wolf. Then I’ll show you what the world looks like to a vampire.”

Vesemir nodded, tucking the pouch away inside before returning. Leona grinned before running into the woods, Vesemir hot on her trail. They dodged trees and skirted snow piles and when she threw a snowball at his head, he ducked before hurling one back. 

Vesemir felt the wind in his hair and the cold on his face and he remembered doing this long ago. Before the duty had fallen to him for one more batch of recruits, resulting in one final Wolf. That Wolf, and his older ones, were safe here. But they couldn’t stay.

And if he wanted to make the world better for them, they needed new tools.

Leona had explained it all - the blood magic involved, the ritual, imbibing a concoction forged of centuries of study and theory but never collated into a result. All those weeks spent holed up in the library and she’d found the missing piece. 

Jaskier had given his blood willingly, once he knew what she needed it for. So had Ciri. The future Witchers would be volunteers and have a few strengths of the Fae, the Elder, and the vampire. They’d get full Witcher training and learn to control their powers. And Vesemir and Leona would train them together.

The only three who didn’t know what was going on were the Wolf Witchers. Vesemir knew they’d argue, knew they wouldn’t let him take on something so dangerous as a full transformation. But if he couldn’t lead by example, then he wasn’t fit to lead at all.

So he ran. He let the forest touch his mind once more, its spirit so entwined with Kaer Morhen and the blood of all those lost. And he swore - no more. No more children lost, no more mutations, no more torture. The transformations wouldn’t be comfortable, but they wouldn’t be deadly. And if he fell, Leona would help the others as they rebuilt. He’d made her swear on it.

As they circled back to the east courtyard, breathless with cold, Leona wrapped her arms around him and brushed her lips against his. “It’ll be done, my friend. I promise.”

Vesemir bumped his head against hers with a smile. “I know.

* * *

“Wait, go over this again.”

Vesemir sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It won’t change in the third telling.” He looked to Leona, who was leaning against a table in the main hall. “This is the only way.”

Leona took stock of the Witchers in that moment. Vesemir looked perturbed. Eskel was pacing and pushing his hair out of his face. Lambert looked angry, but he almost always looked angry. And Geralt, standing the closest to Vesemir, looked...proud.  _ Odd _ .

“You approve?” she asked Geralt.

“I told you I did,” he muttered. “When we retrieved the cask.” His eyes widened ever so slightly. “Ah. I understand.”

“Wait, you knew about this?” Lambert reeled on Geralt, who backed up.

“No. I knew Leona had offered to turn him decades ago, when you were just starting on The Path.”

“And I refused,” Vesemir said as he walked over to Lambert. “And ultimately, none of you gets a say in this.”

“He’s right,” Eskel said softly, turning to face them all. “It’s Vesemir’s choice.”

Lambert crossed his arms, unease flickering over his features. “And how the hell do we get  _ volunteers _ ?”

“I’ll handle that,” Leona said, meeting his heavy gaze. “It’s been arranged.”

He scoffed. “No one’s going to volunteer to be a Witcher.”

She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “I know many who would willingly be turned. I’ve had several offers myself. As have my brethren. They’ll volunteer because their families will be taken care of, and they will be tested before any final decisions are made.”

“That’s generous,” Geralt said slowly, confusion marring his brow. “How does all this get funded?”

She shrugged. “I have my ways. You don’t get to be my age without picking up a few tricks.”

Eskel chuckled. “I’m in.”

“As am I,” Geralt said.

Lambert looked at them all, kicked a loose stone, and said, “Yeah. Okay.” He pointed at Vesemir. “For you, old man. But we’d better take this slowly and not do anything stupid.”

Vesemir clapped him on the shoulder. “Lambert, when was the last time you ever saw me do something stupid?”

Lambert waved him off, but his smile was fond. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ll leave you boys to talk,” Leona said as she circled the perimeter of their little huddle. “I have preparations to make. The full moon’s in a week and it’ll take that long to get everything ready.”

When she was gone, the four Wolves stared at each other. “This changes everything,” Eskel said, rubbing the scarred side of his face with his knuckles. “There will be mistakes.”

“We hold true,” Vesemir said firmly. “I hate that there won’t be any more Wolves, but I wouldn’t trade you lot for anything. We have to rebuild, and this is the way forward.”

“Aretuza won’t like it,” Geralt said. “They’ll see it as an act of war.”

“Maybe,” Lambert replied. “But they’re too far up their own assholes and kiss the boots of kings to worry about the Witchers.”

“They don’t like having their power contested. This will eventually get out, but we’ll keep it a secret as much as possible.” Vesemir looked up, beckoning with two fingers. “Come on you two, I know you’re there. We all do.”

Jaskier and Ciri stood up from their hiding spot behind a covered table on the floor above and looked down. Jaskier smiled sheepishly at Geralt. “This concerns us too, you know.”

Geralt shook his head, straining to keep the smile off his face. “And yet we said we wanted to meet on our own for a few moments before pulling you all in. Funny how that didn’t work.”

Lambert grinned at Ciri. “That was better, kid. I almost didn’t hear you scoot around the table.”

She looked crestfallen. “My boot got caught on a stone.” 

Eskel snorted. “We’ll have to work on some coordination drills, cub. You’ll get there.”


	16. One More Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir deserves a little gentleness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this late at night while ill. I did try to catch typos but there may be more than the norm.

In the early days of their accord, it wasn’t about sex. She’d saved him from having his throat slashed or being run out of town on a pike. And in turn, he shared his camp with her.

Before the next generation of Wolves, Vesemir had been a Witcher feared and renowned. Contracts called him out by name. Aldermen and village elders may not have courted him, but they certainly vied for his attention. And yet Vesemir killed their beasties and took their coin but refused the more generous offers of rooms with soft feather mattresses and dark-eyed temptations with skin that beckoned in the firelight.

Like most Witchers, he preferred his own company, not counting that of his horse. So sharing camp with Leona was odd at first. The vampire could have stayed anywhere, with anyone. And yet she chose a Witcher.

As he got older, Vesemir concocted the theory that some Witchers get one person - usually a mortal - they can’t drive off. Melitele knew Geralt had tried with Jaskier, and look what happened. Not only did Geralt get his attentions and affections, so did Eskel and Lambert. Before the bard, all three of his Wolves were loners, only returning to Kaer Morhen in the winters and only ever in each other’s company.

For Vesemir, it had been Leona. The first night in his camp, she bunked down opposite him near the fire, keeping watch as it burned low. They didn’t talk, and Vesemir pretended she wasn’t there. Leona didn’t seem to mind, content with scanning the horizon and occasionally sniffing the air for threats. 

The next day she brought him a brace of hares, which he cleaned and made into stew. Then they hit the road, she his silent companion. He spent the time they traveled studying her, trying to detect the _why_ in all of it. And when she finally spoke up, it was with a smile.

“Gods above and below save me from silent Witchers,” she said teasingly, her eyes glinting strangely in the midday sun. “I do hope you don’t think your stoic act will drive me off. It’s not like I go around saving Witchers from brigands as a hobby.”

That night their conversation was stilted, but as he ate and set to bed down, she began to sing. Softly, gently, some old folk song from a time long past that was before even his memory began. He recognized it as a thread in the tapestry of Toussaint, rich and thick and lingering like wine at the back of the throat. 

He was mesmerized. 

A year passed, and their bond grew. The toughest contracts were fought by Witcher and vampire both, but she never took a share of the coin nor asked for any reward. He came to learn about her life, and she his; and suddenly they were more than travel companions. 

“Of all things, a Witcher and a high vampire,” Vesemir joked one night as she returned from her own hunt. Her hands were clean but there was an errant drop of blood near her mouth. When he leaned in to wipe it away, Leona curled her fingers into his collar and kissed him.

The sex was simply that - an exchange, meant to both awaken and soothe. It happened sporadically over the years, usually when she neared a time when the blood ran hot and she fought off the urge to create another of her kind. Vesemir occupied her attentions with his hands and mouth and she would sink into him gratefully.

They would separate for a while, and then reunite near the Toussaint border. She owned a little house on a hill above a vineyard, and they’d spend a few days drinking and swapping stories. And yes, on occasion fucking. It wasn’t love that they shared, but a common origin.

And now, as Leona lay curled around him, he sighed contentedly. 

“Tomorrow then,” she said softly, combing her fingers through his chest hair. “How are you?”

Vesemir thought on that for a moment before responding. “It’s strange. I’ve spent dozens of decades in this life. Always fighting or moving and never truly resting. And every time I came back here, it felt like home because it belonged to the Witchers.” He sighed and put his hand over hers. “But time passed and they all died, save a few, and it was just empty halls and echoes of what could have been.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m ready. It will never be the same, and I spent too long trying to bring back what was already long lost. It’s time to change it.”

Leona looked up at him and that face she adored so much. “You’re a good man, Vesemir. Thank you for letting me help.”

He squeezed her hand and closed his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.”

* * *

“Geralt! Geralt!”

Per her usual, Ciri came flying around a corner, all hair and flapping cloak and bright smile. Geralt looked up from the sword he was sharpening to see her running pell-mell at him. Chuckling, he put the sword aside and she skidded to a halt in front of him, breathless and pink-cheeked.

He ruffled her hair, ducking her swats. “Something better not be on fire, kid.”

“No! Look!” She held out her hand, eyes wide with glee, and muttered something under her breath. A shimmering line of energy spiraled up from her palm. Just as Geralt began to admire its shine, the magic flew up and out and on instinct he dodged. His instincts, per usual, were right; a dagger made of the same sparkling energy now sat in her palm, its tip quivering. “I can make it into a sword, too, but I’ve only been able to do it once. This is easier.” Ciri gripped the dagger by the handle and thrust it into empty air.

And then she was on the other side of the courtyard, grinning. Geralt stared at her, mouth slightly ajar.

“Did she just _teleport_?”

Ciri closed her fist and the arcane dagger disappeared before looking up at Lambert’s baffled face peering out at them from the parapet. “Yep!” Ciri blinked, swaying on her feet. “The world’s spinning a little.”

Geralt ran toward her, arms out as she toppled forward, her grin turned sluggish. “Whoa, kid. Okay. Let’s go sit down.”

“Okay.” Ciri let Geralt scoop her up and carry her inside. Once he got her settled in a chair by the fire, glass of water in hand, he crouched before her. Lambert’s footsteps had followed them in, worry carrying him quickly to their side.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” Geralt brushed the hair back from her face.

“Yeah.” She gave him a sleepy smile. “It just takes a lot out of me. But I had to show you my dagger.”

He felt Lambert behind him, nearly vibrating with concern. “She’s all right,” he said softly over his shoulder. “Maybe go get Leona and Vesemir, just in case.”

Lambert took off for the library and after he was gone, Ciri looked at Geralt with a very serious expression on her young face. “Is that my power? Teleporting?”

He folded her collar down, unable to keep from fussing as something twisted in his chest. “I don’t know. When did you figure out you could do that?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been working on the dagger but I didn’t know I could do that.” Her eyes rolled forward to focus on Geralt. “That was new.”

“Right. We’ll figure it out, kid.”

“Geralt?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you love him?”

He must have looked a bit constipated in the moment because Ciri gave a weak laugh. “Little shit,” he said fondly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“That’s good. I don’t want you to be alone.” And she fell asleep, head lolled forward. 

Geralt blew out a breath. “You’re killing me, cub.” 

When Lambert returned with Leona and Vesemir, they found Geralt in one of the chairs by the fire, Ciri curled in his lap and snoring. After he explained what happened, Leona looked closely at the young woman. “She seems no worse for the wear, which is good. That kind of energy, expended at all once, must have taken a toll.” She gave Geralt a pointed look. “Teleported? Across the courtyard?”

“It was fucking wild,” Lambert responded. “Just a flash of light and bam. She was a good sixty feet away.”

Vesemir gave Geralt’s shoulder a squeeze. “She’s all right. Just tuckered out. Let’s put her to bed.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Geralt said as he stood, Ciri safely tucked in his arms. “Just want to be sure.”

Vesemir followed Geralt up to Ciri’s room, leaving Lambert and Leona to watch them go. “Fucking wild,” Lambert said finally, almost an aside. “She’s got power.”

“She does,” Leona agreed. “That’s what worries me.”

* * *

That night, they all stood around Vesemir as he drank the first potion to begin his transformation. “It’s really not much more than a soothing elixir,” Leona explained as she prepared it on the table in Vesemir’s room. “It loosens the body and begins to...learn the mutations that made you into a Witcher, my love. You’ll sleep well tonight and tomorrow we’ll take the next step.”

Ciri, now awake, held Geralt’s hand tightly. “He’ll be all right, cub,” Geralt said softly to her. “I’ve seen what Leona put in the elixir. It’s nothing bad. Not like the potions we take when we’re fighting.”

But Ciri didn’t let go of his hand. There was a vibration in her skin and it set Geralt’s Witcher senses buzzing. _She has power_ , Leona had told him later. _She needs to learn to control it, or it will overcome her_.

One thing at a time, he told himself. See Vesemir through this, and help Ciri. He hadn’t mentioned to Jaskier that he may stay at Kaer Morhen but he doubted the bard would argue.

One thing at a time. One worry in each moment, and no more.

Vesemir took the vial from Leona with a slight smile, raising it up to look at the softly swirling mixture. “To my health then,” he said, and downed it one gulp. He smacked his lips. “Tastes like cabbage.”

Ciri laughed and it was as though the room let out a breath. Eskel peeled away from the wall to rest a hand on the small of Lambert’s back, and Jaskier looped his arm into Geralt’s while he clung to Ciri.

Leona slipped onto the bed beside Vesemir and watched him carefully, checking the beat of his heart and the warmth in his skin. “How are you?”

Vesemir nodded. His eyes were growing heavy and he could feel sleep beckoning him. “Good. A little warm. But fine otherwise.”

“Good.” Before he laid down, she looped a short leather cord around his neck, from which a bright blue stone hung. “It’s a kind of alert, in case anything happens that’s not normal. I don’t expect anything to go wrong but I won’t take chances.”

Vesemir nodded and closed his eyes. He was asleep almost immediately. “I’ll stay with him,” Leona whispered. “You all go. Once I’m certain things are settled, I’ll find you.”

They filed out of the room, every Witcher looking back at the man who had raised them to make sure he was still there. Still breathing.

Once downstairs, Geralt blew out a breath, feeling the tension he’d been carrying release in a rush of adrenaline. “Geralt?” Jaskier was there, by his side. Like always. His eyes were beseeching in the firelight and Geralt wanted nothing more than to take what he was offering.

“Come to bed,” he said, pulling Jaskier to him so he could nuzzle underneath his ear. “Keep me from worrying.”

Jaskier’s hands clenched on Geralt’s waist and he whined a little at the contact. “Yes. Yes. Anything.” His gaze shot over to Eskel and Lambert. “You two. Come on.”

* * *

Vesemir awoke to the sound of sleet hitting his windows. The fire was banked low in the hearth, so the room was cold. He stretched, expecting the crackle of cartilage and bone like every morning.

Nothing. Just a luxurious stretch of muscles still warm from sleep. He bent his right knee, the one that always bothered him. It moved fluidly. 

“A side effect of the elixir,” Leona said from his left side. She was buried up to her eyeballs in furs and blankets, peering out at him like a bat in a cave. “Some of your old, lingering wounds will begin to repair themselves.”

He laughed, his voice hoarse from sleep. “Shit. If you’d told me that, I would have agreed to this a long time ago.”

She chuckled. “Surprise?”

Vesemir looked down at his hands and saw smoother skin, fewer veins and wrinkles. They were still his hands, scarred and massive with rough palms. But they looked and felt just a little younger. 

“Hmmm, I know these hands,” Leona purred, tracing a finger over one of the veins in his left hand. “I remember them well.”

He turned to her then, amber eyes bright with memory and desire. “Care to remember them again?”

Vesemir dove for her as she laughed, but that sound turned into a pleased hum as he kissed her neck. One of her sin marks, deep and jagged, begged to be followed by his tongue. Leona squirmed beneath him, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.

She smelled like candy. Confectionary, light as air. Like spun sugar and strawberries and caramel, all bound up together in a scent that made his mouth water. He pulled back to look at her, dazed. “What is that?”

“Your senses are starting to adjust.” She ran a fingernail over the side of her neck, the red welt in its wake making his mouth water. “You are getting a taste of the change.”

Vesemir couldn’t tear his eyes away from her neck. “Why do I want to bite you?”

Her mouth quirked into a knowing smile. “Because that’s the next step. Remember what I told you.”

He reached out, hand trembling, to trace the mark on her flesh. “I remember. But it’s….that smell….” He pulled back. “You’ve never shared your blood with anyone. I know what this means, Leona.”

She reached out to him, arms beckoning, eyes dark with desire. “Come here, my wolf.”

Vesemir burrowed into her, inhaling her scent, feeling her body beneath his. Everything was swirling together, bound up in a rush of need. His gums itched and he _wanted_ like never before. “It’s all right,” Leona said soothingly, one hand on the back of his head to guide him. “Take it slowly.”

Vesemir groaned but did as he was told, licking up her neck. There was magic in her skin; magic as old as anything Aretuza wielded but born of something more primal and fierce. Almost animalistic. Desire and need and frenzy bound in blood and held just below her skin, where it throbbed and ached to be released.

“When you’re ready,” she breathed out, her hands gentle on him.

He inhaled one more time, and then sunk his teeth into her neck.


	17. The Coldest Stone and the Warmest Beds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S MORE SMUT

Leona floated on a hazy cloud of throbbing desire. Vesemir’s bite - which began as blunt and unskilled - had quickly warmed into something more intense. He suckled at her neck, drawing blood from her body and absorbing it into his own and as she let go of everything but that feeling, bliss replaced the momentary pain.

She’d been told so many times that a bite, at the right moment, was like leaving your body and watching from above, feeling tethered to the pulse of blood but also to nothing at all. For the first time in over five hundred years, Leona was experiencing what she’d given to others. Now she understood why some came to crave the prick of fangs in their neck.

Vesemir drank until she felt his body slump against her, and peeling away from him gently, she tucked him in and wiped the blood from his lips with a finger. “Sleep, my wolf,” she said softly, kissing his brow before slipping out of the room.

She could feel _everything_. The age of the stones under her bare feet, and how they were home to moss and lichen and, when the weather turned, to insects that would buzz and breed. And the thump of a heart that rarely beat and the smell of lust and musky, warm skin beckoned her like a crooked finger in the dark.

As she neared Geralt’s room a groan escaped her lips and she put her forehead against the door. _This is foolish_ , some rational part of her thought. _You are not weak. You are She of the Night and Firs Covered in Snow. You know the smell of deer in twilight, their fear and their haste to get out of your way. You know what it means to be a predator._

But their scent called to her. She was powerless in the moment.

“Leona.”

The door opened and there stood Eskel, gorgeous and naked and scarred across that honeyed skin and she fell into him, hands greedy, lips at his thundering pulse. He gasped against her but pulled her forward, willingly, into his embrace. Somehow the door was shut and she was _everywhere_. Ravenous. Eyes bled black and fine cheekbones jutting out from her skin.

If anyone else in the room said or did anything, she paid no mind. Eskel smelled like pack, and she needed it. “Please,” she said, the word breaking over her lips like a wave. Leona felt him shift and suddenly they were all around her. 

Hands on her arm and neck, where the bite still, unhealed, stung. A hand looped into her thick brown hair, present but not tugging. More on her waist. A set lifting her by the back of her thighs so she could wrap her legs around Eskel’s waist. She whimpered and bucked into that touch. Desperate. Growling with needy sounds as she rocked against him.

“Fuck,” Eskel said, stunned. “Leona…”

“I’m okay. Well, maybe not.” She shook her head and for the first time saw she was surrounded by the others. Jaskier - _Jaskier_ \- was the one with a fist wrapped in her hair, his bright blue eyes stormy through those dark, dark lashes. “Don’t make me beg,” she warned, bucking into Eskel and getting a groan out of him.

“Come on.” His voice was dark. Dangerous. Velvet over steel and it made her eyes roll back in her head, how good it sounded.

And then she was on her back on an impossibly large bed, staring up at four men whose hearts beat and whose blood pumped and she wanted. Oh, she wanted all of them. Everything they could offer. She would wring pleasure from them and they from her and she would float on a wave that never did anything but crash against the rocks of her desire.

“Yes. Anything.” She glared at their hesitance, but caught the smirk on Lambert’s face. “You ought to know better than any of them.” She touched two fingers to the bite on her neck. “I had no idea. It’s….beyond anything I’ve ever felt.” She curled her other hand around Lambert’s thigh. “I have needs, you know.” A wink. “Think you can satisfy someone of my age and prowess?”

Lambert crawled over her, smooth skin and lithe sinew, flowing muscle blocking her vision until all she saw was his rugged countenance and those impossibly bright amber eyes. “Gave us a scare, love,” he said, nipping at her jaw. “Here we all are, asleep, and then you bang on the door.” He waggled a finger at her. “Naughty.”

“I need to….” Leona threw her head back and moaned. 

It was _Geralt_ who understood. Whether he collected permission from them all with a nod or a gesture, she didn’t know. But she trusted that it had in fact been gathered before he cupped her jaw in his hand. “Just promise you won’t break us.”

She huffed a strangled laugh. “I could.”

“But you won’t.”

She nodded. “I won’t. I would never.” She so rarely broke the safety off of her powers. Letting anyone, human or not, feel how she could influence them always felt dirty to her in so many regards. But now - everyone willing and able and begging for it - she let go. It was a stripping down. A peeling off of one of the many layers she used to shield others from what she could do. 

The chorus of hisses and moans were like music to her. Lambert growled in her ear, hands suddenly possessive on her body. “What the fuck,” he gasped out, eyes blown open in lust. 

“That’s….a piece of it. I won’t do more.” Leona reigned the power back in, feeling it sink under her skin, watching the sin marks on her arms light up with the effort. A dull thump made her turn her head and she saw Eskel sink to his knees before the fireplace, eyes closed as he fisted his cock roughly. He already looked wrecked and it was a beautiful thing. Leona drank in the sight of him, sweating and red-faced, teeth sunk into that lower lip she’d had the pleasure of sampling.

Lambert kissed her hard before rolling off to go to Eskel. He swatted Eskel’s hand away, making the other man buck and snarl in protest, until he took up the rhythm with his own hand. “That’s mine,” Lambert said as he worked Eskel over, teeth sunk into the muscle of his shoulder.

“So that leaves me with the two I’ve not yet tasted.” Leona rolled to her side and began plucking at the laces on her shirt. She could feel _everything_ \- the plush fur beneath her, the rub of cotton and linen from the bedclothes. She swore she could even smell the animal musk lingering from the bears that provided their fur to warm their beds. She scented the lust in the air, thick and pulsing. The precome beading at the head of Eskel’s beautiful cock. The smell of Lambert’s skin as it flushed with desire and the heat of the fire. 

She expected Geralt to touch her first. But _Jaskier_ came to her, those dark blue eyes scraping over her figure. “I want to,” he said softly, hands out and reaching for her. “I want to know.”

Leona took one of his hands in hers, motioning to Geralt with the other one. “I won’t bite,” she purred and he laughed, but it was a rusty sound as his gaze kept flitting over to Eskel and Lambert. Eskel’s back was arched, eyes screwed shut as he gasped, then pulled Lambert into a scorching kiss. “Go,” she said, eyebrow arched suggestively. “We’ll have our time later.”

Jaskier could smell her from here - sex and blood commingled with their sweat and he was already cross-eyed with need. “Not going to ruin me?” he teased, petting her sides with gentle hands. A woman in body, yes, but everything else felt unfamiliar and his world was slowly tilting off the map.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted as she finally wrested herself free from her shirt. “And only if you ask nicely.”

Jaskier saw the marks tattooed under her flesh and hesitantly touched one on her arm with a finger. “I’ve heard of these,” he said, voice gone breathy with wonder. “I didn’t think it was true.”

“Don’t look in one spot for too long. They tend to make people dizzy,” she warned, tipping his chin up. 

“Then where should I look?” His face took on a mischievous quality, like an imp readying a prank.

 _Or a fae_ , she thought with a chuckle. “Anywhere else you want.”

He was quick with his mouth and more so with his hands. Leona was pleased at those clever fingers dancing over her body, pinching then soothing. And he clearly wasn’t afraid of her - and in retrospect, someone who regularly bedded Witchers wasn’t going to be put off by a high vampire. Jaskier kissed down her sternum, hands framing her breasts as he thumbed at her nipples. It was too easy to lace her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp and making him mewl.

Leona closed her eyes with a sigh but cracked them back open when Eskel let out a sharp cry. She felt Jaskier freeze and they both turned to see Geralt now behind Eskel, who was on all fours over Lambert. Eskel’s mouth was wrapped around Lambert’s cock while Lambert gripped his head. Geralt had at least three fingers in Eskel’s hole, other hand resting on the dimples both Leona and Jaskier knew were there - by sight and by touch. And the White Wolf was staring at them, eyes so dark and hooded he would have looked menacing in any other situation.

Jaskier clamped his gaping mouth shut to gave Leona a wicked smile. “I think we have some catching up to do.”

* * *

Five was too many for even the biggest beds in Kaer Morhen. Leona stole one of the Witchers shirts, since her clothes were in gleefully shredded tatters, and slipped into it before tracking back to her room.

Even for her the stone was cold so she hurried, meaning to check on Vesemir before turning in herself. She heard his heartbeat before she saw him. Geralt snagged her arm, reeling her in, pinning her to the wall. “We never got our chance,” he growled in her ear, staring openly at her. “And you took my shirt.”

She shrugged. “They all look the same. Roughspun linen, big enough for two humans to wear at the same time.” She motioned to where the hem hung below her knees. “Or one high vampire, I suppose.”

Despite himself, Geralt chuckled. The entire time the five of them had been….entwined, he and Leona had only kissed. She’d been cool to the touch before Jaskier, then Eskel, ran hot hands all over her body, letting her steal their warmth. But it never lasted. Leona once again felt like a cold spring river and he wanted to ball his hands up and keep them there. Witchers always ran hot, and she felt like a balm over a burn.

“Going to take what you want, White One?” Her register dropped and he felt the slightest twist of power lodge in his chest, scratching at him like she so enjoyed doing to Jaskier and his brothers. His tongue flicked out, tasting her. Immediately her hands were on him, tracing scars and ribs and old burns. “And to think all this time you weren’t terribly fond of me,” she replied.

“You test my resolve. It’s different.” He thrust up against her. “You and Jaskier are the only ones who do that to me.”

Leona grinned at him. “You looked very….tightly controlled when you were fucking Eskel.” She tapped his bottom lip. “Mortals only make those faces when they’re trying _so hard_ to reign it in.” Her knuckles rapped on the wall behind her. “Is this what you want? Hard and fast and up against the wall?”

“Yes.” Geralt’s fingers were already hurriedly undoing the flap on his pants but before she could get a hand around him, she was lifted up. 

Legs now around his waist, the blunt head of his cock brushed against her and she arched into it, hands dug into his hair and pulling him in for a kiss that didn’t hide her fangs. He hissed when they pricked his bottom lip but he let her draw him closer before rocking into her slick entrance.

The one thing Leona had craved for far too long was the punishing, unrelenting force of a Witcher’s hips. And Geralt was the strongest of them; somewhere in the back of her mind she was giddy with it, the sound of his hips smacking into her, his little breathy pants in her ear. The way he kept one hand behind her head, the other pressed flat against the wall as he thrust. Geralt made these beautiful little grunts, filling her ears with them as he filled her core. And Leona whispered little pleas and compliments, clutching at him.

His power and control were _incredible_. She could feel the orgasm rocket up through faster than anything she’d ever experienced. It caught up her entire attention, filling her senses with the hard, quick ecstasy of it.

“Not….gonna hold out,” he grunted, hips already moving faster, deeper.

“Don’t know why you’d need to,” she purred back. And then sunk her teeth into his neck.

Geralt threw his head back and _roared._ Leona swore he shook the foundations of Kaer Morhen with that primal sound. He tasted like fire and magic and pleasure and a lesser vampire would have tried to suck him dry for want of it spilling down their throat. His heat coiled in her and she moaned, retracting her fangs only when he twitched inside her.

Geralt slumped against her, sweating and shaking. “Fuck.” One gold eye glared at her. “You bit me.”

“I did.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You are delightful.” 

That got her a snort, then he was pressing into her and kissing her with such passion she almost went weak at the knees with it. “We’ve observers,” she said when they separated, and she turned his face to the side.

Jaskier yelped and ducked back inside, laughing, while Lambert and Eskel stared at them. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Lambert said, stunned.

“Agreed.” Eskel nudged him back inside the room. “Get your asses in here. We’ll make the bed work.”


	18. A Blood Red Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir transforms, and Geralt offers himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end! Probably a few more chapters to wrap up the plot and add a few more sexy bits.

Vesemir awoke to the smell of fresh baked bread, roasting meat, and mead. But it made his stomach churn but not in any way he expected. It was acidic, vile. His gorge rose and he swallowed hard, fighting against the sensation to vomit.

“Easy, my wolf.” A cool hand was at his brow and his vision was suddenly filled with Leona’s concerned expression. “This is the part I spoke of. It will pass.”

“I’ve had worse,” he rasped out, throat scratchy and sore. A sharp pain on the side of his neck made him hiss and he slapped a palm down, like swatting a bug. “It didn’t heal?”

She shook her head. “It won’t. Not immediately. Once you’re through the change some things will be repaired. The bite won’t even register after that.”

Vesemir nodded, collapsing gratefully into the bed as she helped guide him back down. His body felt like lead sunk to the bottom of the ocean; closing his eyes helped the vertigo but the heaviness in his limbs only sank into the mattress.

“It will pass,” she repeated, the bed dipping as she came to his side. “I’ll be here every step of the way.”

He curled into her, thankful for her presence. She smelled like them - his pack. His boys. His mind wasn’t alert enough to sense more but he was glad to be surrounded by that familiar smell.

And when he awoke, he was. 

Vesemir could feel their heartbeats in his mind, the slow steady thumps of Witcher hearts, the bird-like fluttering of two humans. The cool hand was back at his brow and a larger, rougher hand was fussing with the pillow under his head. “Sorry. Just trying to make sure you’re comfortable.”

Eskel. Of course it was. Always looking out for others. Vesemir grabbed at the hand, Witcher instincts still firing but slowed, dimmed. He thought such an experience would choke him with fear but knowing they were all there was comforting. 

Vesemir slipped back into a dreamless sleep.

One by one, they all left the room and when Leona closed the door behind them, she leaned against it and sighed. Five pairs of eyes stared back at her. “He’s doing quite well,” she explained. “The safeguards Ludanis and I put in place are holding. We’ll continue to keep watch but he’s past the point of danger now.”

Relief rippled through the mortals around her and she saw Ciri quickly wipe away a tear, but her eyes still shone oddly. “We should probably make sure the place is clean for when he wakes up,” Lambert said, clapping a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Come on, you lazy assholes.”

The Witchers left for the tasks to be done outside, leaving Jaskier and Ciri staring at Leona. “I’m tempted to let them work while we get into trouble elsewhere,” she teased, smiling at them. “Jaskier, care to escort Ciri and I?”

He grinned back. Jaskier ached to touch her again, but with Ciri near, he kept his hands to himself. There was something near to an addiction he now, suddenly, had with her cool skin and honeysuckle-scented hair. Geralt had teased him that morning about smelling like all of them, but Jaskier knew he loved it. “Where to?” He asked as he followed the vampire and Ciri out of the main keep and down the path the stables.

Ciri was practically bouncing, she was so excited. “Leona found a patch of marshflower and Vesemir’s always said how rare it was. We’re going to harvest it for him, so it’s there when he needs it.”

Jaskier shook his head fondly and reached out to ruffle Ciri’s hair. She swatted at him playfully, making Leona laugh. “Come now. Let’s give those horses a good run on the way out. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

* * *

Days passed, and with each one that did, Vesemir died a little. The mutations long anchored in his body did not easily relinquish their hold. “It’s why this exists,” Ludanis said, laying Vesemir’s head back on the pillow and carefully observing the bob of the Witcher’s throat as he swallowed the potion. “He sleeps through the worst of it and when the transformation is complete, he’ll see the world with new eyes.”

Geralt had to fight against the urge to stare at the stunning vampire. There was something more primal about Ludanis, beyond the scent of fresh earth and clove that clung to him like a second skin. His dark gold hair was long and wavy, and his face sharply cut, the fine bones thrust against olive skin that glowed. His eyes were some unfathomable shade of hazel, shifting colors from green to brown to yellow as the light changed.

Ludanis was younger than Leona by a couple of centuries, but he bore them well. A high vampire in his prime, buoyed by his magical training and raw talent. “It’s so hard to keep one's eyes to themself when he’s around,” Leona said softly, her face surprisingly serious. “I know the feeling.”

Geralt grimaced - better than blushing - and turned away. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Now she smiled, all fangs and knowing glint in her warm brown eyes. “I’m sure you don’t.” Leona kissed him softly, barely more than a peck. “You Witchers are terrible liars.” Geralt harrumphed, making her laugh. “Now, now. No need for churlishness, my White One.” 

As she handed Ludanis more bottles and warm cloths, Geralt watched her squeeze Vesemir’s limp hand. The affection in that simple gesture tugged at his heart. He stayed while they tended to Vesemir, carefully watching what they were doing. Just in case, he told himself, though he knew Vesemir was in the best care possible.

His gaze flicked to the tips of fangs now poking out over Vesemir’s bottom lip and he sighed. This was never the ideal solution, but the ideal had been lost long ago and stripped them of their power. Now they were taking it back, and doing so on their terms.

_ He wanted this _ , Geralt reminded himself, eyes tracking the deep blue veins skating up Vesemir’s exposed neck. They curled around his jaw almost lovingly, caressing that face he’d known for nearly a century.  _ He wanted this. _

When they all left the room, Ludanis leaned against the wall and wiped the back of his hand against his forehead. “My, my. I’ve not worked this hard in….well, ever.” His smirk hit Geralt right in the gut. “I hope I’m earning my keep, Geralt.”

Geralt grumbled, carefully shifting his gaze away, making Leona laugh. “That’s Witcher for  _ yes, absolutely _ .”

Ludanis kept his eyes on Geralt. “How can you tell?”

“I’ve had some….training.”

Ludanis stared at her for a long moment then burst into laughter. “You are horrible.”

Leona sighed. “I know.” She motioned for them to follow as the scent of dinner floated up to them. 

Once they were all seated around the big dinner table Ludanis kept up a steady stream of chatter all through the meal. Swigging wine with Lambert and Eskel and entertaining Jaskier with stories of epic plays he’d seen long ago. At one point just as Ludanis ramped up yet another yarn, Leona leaned in and asked, “Are you all right, Geralt? You’re more quiet than usual.”

He considered his words and finally relented. “Worried about Vesemir. I know you’re taking care of him. But I’m still worried. The old man’s never been out for this long.”

Leona put her hand on top of his. “My darling Witcher. Your heart is so big and yet you bury it under stone. I understand. But this  _ is _ Vesemir we’re talking about.” She leaned in, brushed her lips over his cheek. “There are safeguards in place. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“And that means more to me than anything.” Her smile dropped, expression now rather serious. “He’ll need to feed when he wakes up. He won’t be strong enough to hunt.”

Geralt nodded, mind made up before he was fully cognizant of his own decision. “I’ll do it.”

“You may have to fight for your place in line,” she said, motioning to Eskel and Lambert. Geralt opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. You’ll need me there, possibly Ludanis. Vesemir will be - well, honestly, I’m not entirely certain. No one has, to my knowledge, ever turned a Witcher before. We’re in uncharted territory. But if he’s anything like a fledging, he’ll be consumed by hunger. Fixated on quenching a desire so deep in his gut that it overtakes all sense of self, all personality until it is sated.”

He looked down at his half-eaten dinner and only felt conviction. “That doesn’t bother me. He’s still Vesemir.”

“He is. But you may not recognize the man you’ve known for so long at first. Sate the hunger, and he will come back to you.” She squeezed his hand. “Patience, White One. Patience and care and love will see him through.”

* * *

Had the world shifted while he’d been asleep? The sun was setting, casting rays of deep oranges and yellows through the windows as night descended. But Vesemir swore he could  _ feel _ that warmth dying as the sun sank below the horizon. His awareness prickled, tensed; he smelled another in his room, their scent unusual but not unpleasant.

“I see we’re awake. Good.” Ludanis rose from the armchair he’d been reading in and swiftly came to the bedside. Gentle, cool fingers poked and prodded about his neck and chest, and yet Vesemir didn’t feel the urge to swat him away. He was far too fascinated - fixated, even - on the blood he heard in the man’s veins. There was no heartbeat, no breath. But he’d fed recently and that sudden urge to strike, hunt, kill swept through him. A tsunami of force and reckoning, of hunger and need.

“I’m afraid eating me won’t get you anywhere,” Ludanis chided softly, helping Vesemir sit up. “You need living blood, my friend. Hot, fresh, and given freely. That’s the key.” He motioned at Vesemir’s lips. “Open up. Let’s check those pearly whites.”

Annoyance didn’t do much to dissipate the hunger coursing through him, but he fought it back enough to obey. “You’ll take me hunting?” He asked, voice raspy with disuse. “I need -“

“You’re not strong enough for that yet. But thankfully we’ve willing donors.” Ludanis motioned to the door and Vesemir heard it creak open before the distinct thump of Geralt’s heartbeat filled his senses. He hissed and tried to shy away, but the grip Ludanis had on him was like trying to break steel or iron. “I know you may not remember, but it was agreed to,” Ludanis said as he and Geralt drew Vesemir up. He twisted in their grasp but his weakened condition kept him from fighting back like he burned to.

“Vesemir. Please.” Geralt was looking at him with open, stark pleading, his mouth a tight line of worry. “You have to.”

“Vesemir.” Leona was there, her scent suddenly comforting. Familiar. He clung to it and the memories there.

“Don’t want to hurt you….” But Vesemir knew his body needed it. Craved it. Ached for the want of that taste he’d never had but could feel in his veins like a soul-deep itch. He fumbled at Geralt weakly, barely heard Leona’s soothing voice or the soft lips at his temple. “Geralt.”

“I’ve got you, old man.” Vesemir resisted once more as Geralt drew him in, pressing his face to the tender junction of his neck and shoulder. “Drink. You won’t hurt me.”

Vesemir drew back instinctually, feeling a dull, throbbing pain in his mouth as his fangs extended. Clutching at Geralt’s shirt, he cried out at the overwhelming scent of blood just below the skin.

Geralt closed his eyes, felt the prick of fangs in his neck, and let Vesemir feed.

Everything was suddenly better. Brighter. More colorful and vibrant. All smells and sounds like walking into a bakery while an orchestra played, but turned up to eleven. It was exquisite. The blood was hot in his mouth, pulsing, washing over his aching gums, soothing his dry throat. Vesemir felt the blood rush through him, filling his stomach. It was better than sex, better than the hunt. Better than any experience in his long life.

And because it was Geralt, he could  _ taste _ the magic of his Signs, the power of his body. It was intimate. Holy. Precious.

“Easy, easy,” Ludanis said in his ear, pulling him back with impossibly strong hands. “We don’t want to make Geralt fall ill.”

The pain was minimal, but the head rush made Geralt see double. “Well done,” Leona whispered in his ear as she guided him down to a chair by the fire. “Rest. Close your eyes. I’ll bring you some water and food.”

“I’ll heal,” he slurred, but she shushed him with a finger against his lips, and his other protests died. Soon she was placing a cup and bowl by his elbow and he devoured both gratefully, glad that the dizziness only lasted a few minutes.

While Geralt ate to regain his strength, Ludanis and Leona helped Vesemir through the trembles that now overtook him. The first few feeds were always tough, as the body fought against the instinct to take, take, take. They got him to drink a balm of honeyed mead layered with nettle and rosemary, the taste foul but the effect soothing as it calmed his nerves and doused the fire in his veins.

Vesemir was suddenly, horribly tired and he just wanted to rest. One eye on him, the other on Geralt, Leona could see the flush spreading on the White Wolf’s neck, creeping up his chest. Feeding a newly made vampire was always tricky, always a test of will. And it left a mark, even when the mortal supplying their food walked away. The mortal was left quivering, bursting with need; the adrenaline of the feed, teetering so near to a cliff. But on a Witcher, it was a heady, lustful rush of desire and strength and she saw him fight it instead of lean into it. She almost had to laugh at his stubbornness, but the situation needed handling.

“Take care of him,” Ludanis said as he tucked a blanket around Vesemir. “He’ll be ravenous now.”

With a nod, Leona rose and sidled next to Geralt, her hand hovering over his arm. “Come.”

Geralt fought against a shiver at the lush, rich sound of her voice; the way it slithered through him and settled in his gut. “The others are in my room,” he said through gritted teeth, letting her draw him up out of his chair.

“Then we’ll go to them.” With a final nod to Ludanis, Leona guided Geralt down the hall toward his room. She could practically hear the creaking of the bones of his hand as Geralt made fists against his thighs. “Geralt, you can touch me.”

“It’s like fire,” he panted out. “I know you said I’d be….like this but -“ Geralt stumbled and she caught him, pressed him into the wall as he breathed hard through his nose. He stared down at her, teetering on an edge, his sudden need begging for release.

Leona leaned in, quick, her mouth suddenly on his. Cool, inviting. She tasted his lips and twined her tongue around his, her hands roaming his chest and skating down his hips. She felt the hard length of him press against her and he moaned in response to the friction. “Not here,” she said against his mouth. “I’m taking you to bed. They’re waiting for you, White One.”


	19. Interlude: Of Affections and Hands That Show It

Hands were taking Geralt away from her the moment they breached the doorway. Eskel and Lambert took Geralt’s arms, guiding him to the bed, while Jaskier looked on with worry. “Will he be all right?”

“Yes.” Her voice came out as a hiss. She could sense his desire, his need. It frissoned below Geralt’s skin, jumping, sparking. No soft ache here - it was raw and primal. Geralt was already bucking into Lambert’s touch, running a rough palm over the mound of the other Witcher’s ass. She could see Lambert fighting the instinct to lean into that touch. Leona crossed the room quickly and drew Jaskier’s gaze to her with hands on his cheeks. “Remember what we discussed?”

Jaskier nodded. “I’ll make sure.”

“Good. I’m relying on you to know. To help him. You know him better than any of us.”

She gave him a gentle nudge and Jaskier stepped forward, slipping into the space Lambert and Eskel made as they pressed Geralt to the wall. Jaskier stood in front of his love, eyes deadly serious. “Geralt. Look at me.”

Geralt’s head thrashed. He was  _ boiling _ with need. “Touch me,” he panted. “Please.”

“Geralt, listen to me.” Jaskier pulled Geralt’s head down with a firm touch to his jaw. “Listen. We talked through this.”

“I know,” Geralt managed to get out through gritted teeth. “I know.”

“You’re going to want anything we can give you,” Jaskier replied, voice thick. “But what were you told?”

The questions helped. Leona had layered in several safety precautions once Geralt understood that he’d be out of his mind with desire and lust after feeding Vesemir. Witchers, though mutated, still had human biology. And the bloodlines of Leona and Ludanis were based in power and desire. Those were the gifts bestowed on them through the ancestral sin committed. The thing that created them. The ability to control a person’s desires through sheer will and influence.

With a nod to Ludanis, Leona closed her eyes and focused. The want was there, yes, but also Geralt’s strength and will, his power and mind and affections. She could feel his love and desire anchor him to Jaskier’s touch, to the way Lambert and Eskel gripped him, holding him up. She latched onto that love, let it wrap around her. 

Leona pried open her mind to him and let it all rush forth in a wave. It staggered her, all those emotions he rarely showed but kept rolled up in a glass bottle and left to drift out to sea. It cascaded over her, crippled her at the knees.

Ludanis was there, arm around her waist, drawing her up and close. “Easy,” he said softly, watching her face for signs of strain. That was one of the precautions - one of them easing Geralt’s desire lest it threaten to overwhelm him. Leona offered to tether herself to the Witcher. It was not a dangerous offer for her, but it meant Geralt had to let her in, let her see all those cracks and fractures and vulnerabilities he hid so well. 

It was an experience she’d only taken on a few other times, and never in the face of someone with such an iron will. Geralt felt  _ everything _ but showed so little. Now, it crawled through her chest and clawed at her throat. It made her breasts ache and her bones shudder.

Ludanis kept his grip on her, reeling her in closer. “Yes?”

She nodded, swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

Jaskier took his cue from them, leaning in to press his mouth to Geralt’s in a slow, steady kiss. Distracted by the plush mouth plundering his, Geralt only vaguely felt Eskel tugging at his shirt, Lambert unbuttoning his pants.

This was the next part of the agreement - Geralt would trust the others would take care of him, and know that he would ask for too much and all of it at the same time. Leona’s tether would keep him from not being able to consent, and if she fell victim to his desires, Ludanis would step in.

But there was also that trust between Geralt and Jaskier - that Jaskier would keep him as level as possible, would stay with and near him, would always be touching him.  _ Your bond hovers on magical _ , Ludanis told them.  _ It is rare and precious, so it will be the anchor. The grounding.  _

Eskel and Lambert would provide their touch and flesh and love and affections. They would let Geralt ask for them, plead and beg for what they were willing to give. 

Everyone knew their role, and everyone knew when to yield. Negotiated, consented to, agreed upon.

Now naked and pressed between two shirtless Witchers, Geralt was combing his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and moaning into his mouth. His cock was hard and leaking but Jaskier’s clever hand was there, lightly stroking. But it wasn’t enough. Geralt turned his head with a desperate groan, his mouth seeking Eskel’s.

Ludanis watched the tableau with clinical distance; his worry was Leona. Her needs, her safety. He recognized that the others were ones she cared for, but he’d known her for centuries and she was always careful and measured. The men of this place let her unravel just a little; become unwound at the seams. He was proud of her for trusting like this, and yet feared for her. Leona was the best of their kind, and some small part of him worried if she could pull herself back from the brink after tasting decadence.

His lips were at her throat before he could give her time to wrest her control back into place. If his touch would help, he offered it freely. Leona’s eyes flew open on a gasp and she immediately sunk her nails into the arm across her chest. Ludanis lowered his hand, let it skim her hip, and he felt her spine ease into those simple touches. “How fares the Witcher?” he asked against her neck.

The hands on Geralt’s body, the lips on his, the aching need of his cock - she felt all of it. Like she was the one being touched and held and kissed. Geralt reveled in the attention lavished on him; the way Eskel’s tongue licked into his mouth, Lambert’s fingers on his chest, Jaskier’s hand on his prick. The roll of pleasure was so sweet and yet….

“More,” she rasped out, letting Ludanis carry them to the floor. “He needs more.”

* * *

Geralt was gone. So unfocused was his mind on anything but the searing heat trapped under his skin he didn’t register being half-carried to the massive bed in the middle of Eskel’s room. The brush of fur on his back jolted him only a little. But the hands parting his thighs, fingertips digging into the crease of his hip?  _ That _ he felt.

It was so good and not enough. Someone ran a hot, wet mouth over his right nipple and he bucked up, moaning. A pair of amber eyes, their corners crinkling with focus, met his. “Got you,” Lambert said with a grin. “You like that?”

Geralt couldn’t form the words but Lambert took his pitiful groan as assent. The room was stifling hot, his sight hazy at the edges, and yet he couldn’t fully take the leap. Some part of him lingered in the back of his mind; his control thrashing at the walls. And then...it was quieted. Subdued. He felt the tendrils of Leona’s power reach out with a steady, soft hand. A reassurance. An acknowledgment of how he felt. Then a question:  _ Do you trust me? _

_ Yes. _

_ Then let them in. Let them take your need and keep it close. Give them that. They love you. Adore you. I will keep you grounded, so that when this is done and you are sated, you return to being Geralt. I promise. _

The tendrils of her power tightened, forging a stronger bond between them.  _ Thank you.  _

His mind shifted and then he fell fully into that space. Floating. Feeling. Consumed and being consumed by the worshipful hands that wanted to show him such affection.


	20. You Burn Through Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, then feels!

Watching Geralt be so pliable, so responsive, made Eskel crazy. He was exhausted, fucked out, limp, and tacky with sweat and seed. But Geralt  _ kept going _ .

Some part of his mind wondered how fucked out a Witcher had to get before they keeled over from exhaustion. He’d fucked Geralt, then Jaskier, sucked Lambert’s cock, and left bite marks all over Leona. He was bone-tired.

Geralt had been fucked four times and now...now….

Eskel looked over and felt his cock stir. Gods above, it shouldn’t be so fucking  _ hot _ . 

Geralt was making keening little noises pulled from the depths of his throat. The very throat that had a set of sharp fangs sunk into it, partially covered by a spill of deep brown hair. He’d never seen Leona with her hair down, not even when she was sprawled out beneath him, those nearly black eyes fixed on him as they fucked.

But the way Geralt half lay in her lap, fingers dug into her thighs, while she drank slowly, carefully from him was erotic. A single, thin line of blood ran down and over Geralt’s collarbone, curling over his pectoral muscle before dripping onto his thigh. Coupled with the vision of Jaskier’s beautiful mouth wrapped around Geralt’s cock, his eyes closed in bliss, hands clutching Geralt’s stuttering hips like a lifeline.

The entire thing lit Eskel’s senses on fire. Lambert was curled beside him, sated and sleepy, his amber eyes half-lidded and heavy but still open. Lambert groaned into Eskel’s chest and thrust shallowly against his hip. “Fuck. I’m going to fucking come again and that shouldn’t be possible.”

Eskel would have laughed if he’d the energy. He did manage to let his fingers walk down Lambert’s spine, relishing in the other man’s shiver. “Just watch,” he whispered.

And watch they did.

Geralt gave a moan that should have rattled the floorboards as Jaskier did something clever with his tongue while Leona pulled away from the bite she’d left in the corded muscle of his neck. Sensing the loss, Geralt shoved a hand in Leona’s hair, pushing her face back down. “No,” he growled. “More.”

Leona winced, the feedback of the psychic tether that bound them ringing in her mind. Geralt was  _ insatiable _ , and yet she could tell the energy was beginning to wane. Which meant he was clinging to it harder, wrapping himself in a cocoon of sensation and need. But eventually he would tire; his body was only mortal, after all.

“Geralt,” she said soothingly. “Focus on Jaskier.” Geralt groaned and thrust into Jaskier’s mouth while she nuzzled his neck. 

“I should assist.” Ludanis’s silky voice was suddenly beside her, in her ear. He’d moved so quickly she’d been the only one to register it, but Leona had assumed he was coming to her side to help stabilize Geralt. From the sheen of lust in his eyes, he clearly had other plans.

Jaskier unhinged his aching jaw from around Geralt’s cock and took up the rhythm with his hand. “Geralt, darling. Listen to me.” Geralt’s attention refocused and Jaskier saw a spark of awareness in his Witcher’s eyes. “Do you truly need more?”

He did. Gods he did. Weakly, he nodded, clutching at the soft curves of the vampire beneath him. Geralt could sense the other vampire’s presence even with his focus on Jaskier. Ludanis felt different in so many ways, and it wasn’t just his scent - saffron and black cardamom and fresh earth. There was something almost cat-like about his grace and fluidity, coupled with impossibly bright hazel eyes that were studying Geralt like a fine painting. An object d’arte, to be admired and relished.

Ludanis slithered around Jaskier, running fingernails down the length of the bard’s spine. Jaskier bucked back into that touch and Geralt smelled him then, the sharp spike of his scent - confusion and lust all balled together, lighting his nerves on fire. He sniffed the air like a dog, catching the scent under his tongue and letting it linger there. 

Jaskier was torn. His love, his lover, was before him, naked and panting and so turned on his eyes had gone black with lust and desire. And he wanted nothing more than to make him come again and again, until he finally went limp with exhaustion. But the look on Geralt’s face - raw, primal - at watching Ludanis circle them like a predator was….thrilling. Ludanis was what Jaskier always thought vampires were like, both beautiful and sharp as a stiletto and utterly dangerous. Looking at the vampire somehow  _ hurt _ , as if Jaskier’s human brain was unable to fully accept or make sense of the instinct to go screaming into the night, away from such a creature. 

Leona was powerful and beautiful, too, but she had a softness to her. A vulnerability. Had it not been for those fangs and her strength, it could be easy to mistake her for a human. Something Jaskier knew she had taken great pains to cultivate over her long centuries.

Ludanis was not the same.

“Yes,” Geralt hissed as he thrust into the air, his entire body feeling empty and on fire at the same time.

“Leona.” Ludanis’s voice was a whip of power across all of them. “Hold onto him.” He ran a palm up Jaskier’s back, making the man shiver in delight. “Geralt, listen to me. If he’s willing, I’m going to take your little bard and fuck him while you watch.” His hand skimmed lowered, tantalizing close to the curve of Jaskier’s ass and Jaskier whimpered. Those nails were a tad too long to be human, perfectly sharp, scraping over his flesh and it shook something loose inside him. 

The temptation was too much. Jaskier thrust back against Ludanis’ touch. Eager for it. “Please, yes,  _ gods _ .” Jaskier’s voice was strangled, a broken sound ripped from his lungs.

“Watch me carefully,” Ludanis commanded, shoving Jaskier back onto the bed. Jaskier was unsure who was being ordered about but he felt eyes on him - all of them, watching. Amber and black glittering dangerously. His gaze cut to where Eskel and Lambert were tangled together on the other bed (the question of where the other bed had come from rising unbidden in his mind, only to be dashed away just as quickly). They were staring with unbridled, unfettered interest.

But Geralt and Leona were hawkish, open in their want. It wormed its way around Jaskier’s throat and down, like hands on his skin. Teasing, pinching, soothing.

And then there were two sets of long, thin fingers with very sharp nails skating down his sides and a very present, stunningly gorgeous vampire hovering over him.

Jaskier arched into that touch and the mouth that followed, the tongue cool and slick over one nipple. The touch of a familiar, callused hand, and then another, softer one, made him force open his eyes. 

He was surrounded. There were hands  _ everywhere _ on him, stroking and scratching and moving. Jaskier let them prop him up against Geralt’s chest and then….

Oh gods.

Geralt tipped his head back at just the right angle to begin sucking delicate violet marks into his jaw and neck, little moans escaping him as he tasted the sweet salt of Jaskier’s skin. Leona took up on his left side, leaving the view unobstructed for Eskel and Lambert as she pulled a nipple into her mouth, leaving Jaskier to whine and buck into the touch. 

And Ludanis slid down his body, his muscles rippling under flawless bronze skin, long golden hair spread out over his shoulders. Sensing Jaskier’s eyes on him, the vampire grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my fangs tucked away.” And then he swallowed Jaskier’s cock down to the root.

* * *

The whole of Kaer Morhen slept well into the afternoon, leaving Ciri to wander the halls. She’d already checked on Vesemir, who was curled up in his bed, little snores escaping him with every other breath. 

Leona had told her not to enter Eskel’s room, but she saw the door cracked and wanted to make sure he was okay. He’d looked a tad shaky coming out of Vesemir’s room the other night and with everything going on….

Surely they wouldn’t yell at her if she just peeked.

Ciri wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t naive. She knew Geralt loved Eskel and Lambert and Jaskier. She knew Leona and Vesemir had been together at one point. The new one, Ludanis, was strange but kind.

Seeing Jaskier curled up in Geralt’s arms was not strange. It made her heart hurt a little to see how peaceful Geralt’s face was in sleep, and how right they looked together. Then she realized there was another arm over Geralt’s chest that couldn’t be connected to Jaskier. And an extra leg thrown over the bit of Jaskier’s that was sticking out of the blankets.

With a stifled giggle, she closed the door and went in search of the high vampires. After wandering downstairs, her stomach growling, she found them seated at the tiny table in the kitchens, sharing a pot of tea.

“Ah, Ciri, you’re awake.” Leona smiled at her over the rim of her cup. “I figured the whole place would sleep the day away.”

Without a word, Ludanis pulled out the other chair and handed her a steaming cup. “Mint and rose, perfect for a cold afternoon.”

Once Ciri was settled, Leona put her cup down and handed Ciri two small, flat bundles wrapped in gorgeous amethyst satin cloths. “For you, my dear.”

The object was strangely heavy in Ciri’s palm. She carefully loosened the cloths and as they fell away, she caught sight of shining silver emblems. “House of Rhysan,” Ludanis said softly. “The crest of my house.”

“And the House of Vetanna,” Leona said, her smile soft. “My house.”

“If you ever need us, these will bring you to us. Or, if we are not in a place of safety, to where you can wait until we return.” Ludanis held out his hands and Ciri gave him the emblems. With a flash of his wrists, the symbols interlocked. “Link them, and you’ll find us both. Or call on one of us.” 

She took the proffered emblems back and studied their curling, intricate shapes closely. She made out the vines and thorns of roses in Ludanis’s, and the shapes of crescent and waning moons in Leona’s. “Thank you,” she whispered, overcome by a sudden flare of emotion. Quick as could be, she kissed Ludanis on the cheek, then jumped into Leona’s arms.

Laughing, Leona kissed the top of her head. “You are pack, and I told Vesemir I’d always, always be there for his family.”

“Leona is my family. My teacher. My savior.” Ludanis reached across the table to rest his hand on Leona’s. “If you are pack to her, then you are family to me.”


	21. Of All The Ways We Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! A bit of an epilogue left. And a little hint to what my next Jaskier origins!AU fic will be!

_Two weeks later_

Vesemir stared down at the ground with a sigh. “Guess I should be thankful at least I won’t hurt myself doing this stupid shit.”

Leona bit back a chuckle. “We do need to test your abilities, dear one.”

“From four stories up?”

“Do you know of another way to figure out if you can fly?”

Vesemir muttered a “Fuck” under his breath, but she saw the corners of his mouth tugging up. He looked good today. She’d helped comb his hair back into a long, smooth ponytail and carefully shaved his face. His hands still shook on occasion, but it was more tremor than constant fluttering. Many of the stress and age lines had disappeared with his transformation, but there was no mistaking that square jaw and crooked nose. His eyes were brighter, sharper; a strange, muted combination of Witcher mutation and fresh vampirism. The cat-like pupils were still there, but the amber of his irises was now a deep russet orange.

Leona had teased him about how attractive his eyes were, before and now, and he’d just batted her away before thinking better of it. She’d wound up on the bed, staring up at his fanged grin, feeling the twitch of eager fingers on her sides before he swooped in to plant a kiss on her mouth.

“Come on, Papa Vesemir!” Lambert called from below. “Get on with the show!”

Vesemir spat a curse at him in Elder, making everyone laugh. “Shit,” he grumbled. “Here goes.”

It turned out that Vesemir could not fly, but a vampire Witcher could land with the grace of a jungle cat from a four story drop. The Witchers put him through his paces - sparring, swords, bows. Vesemir’s reflexes were sharp and quick, better than they’d ever been even in his prime. Ludanis and Leona watched his progress carefully, appraisingly, and admired how fast he responded to every blow.

By the time he’d soundly beaten his boys, leaving them panting in the dirt, Ludanis stepped into the training ring. “I’ll spare you the embarrassment of having Leona kick your ass, young one,” he said, slowly circling Vesemir. “But I would like to test those reflexes for myself.”

The call of Ludanis’s blood sang in his veins. Vesemir knew he was a product of both vampire power and Witcher mutation, but the pull of such a force was new. This was not a siren’s beautiful dirge or the strange, greenhill magic of a hag. It was bold and refined, raw only at its core; its edges sanded down and sharpened into fine-toothed blades that he felt hook into his bones and pull him forward.

Ludanis dashed forward, a blur of speed and motion and grace, and Vesemir forgot everything. He let his body respond as it hummed with the threat of those too-sharp nails slashing air a inch from his throat. Ludanis would not hurt him permanently, but he would make Vesemir feel the threat as easily as a Witcher feared a griffon’s poisoned claws or a wraith’s influence. 

It was a challenge, and a test. Vesemir had been too long out of the field, out of practice, but was determined to take back that time.

It had been frightening, at first, to contemplate a life different from the one he’d lived for over a century. To know that the identity he’d built as a Witcher first would be erased, replaced by something new and bright and unknown. But the truth of what he could do was buried behind that it _meant_ for the Wolves. Because despite his protests, despite a new path in his life, his Wolves were what mattered most. 

Growling, he ducked an open-handed swat and shoved his elbow into the vampire’s gut, letting the motion carrying them both backwards. A cloud of snow plumed around them upon landing and then Vesemir was staring up at the cloudless sky for only a moment before fathomless hazel eyes met his. 

“Do you yield?”

Vesemir bit back a shiver at the playful tone in Ludanis’s voice. “Fuck you,” he spat, only briefly recognizing the harsh chuckle from Lambert to their right.

“Later,” Ludanis said softly. The others probably heard, but Vesemir didn’t care.

_When he came to them the first time, both Leona and Ludanis seemed surprised at the way he curled his fingers into the wooden doorframe of her room and panted out, “What is this?”_

_Leona schooled the grimace off her face and exchanged a weighted look with Ludanis. “Apparently one of your gifts will be that,” she said softly, rising from their chess game to take his hand and draw him close. “We were unsure how your influences would manifest, Vesemir.”_

_“It burns,” he hissed before shoving his face into her neck and inhaling. By all the gods she smelled good. Like blood and fire and oakmoss and…._

_Home._

_Sharp as a knife, his reflexes, as he pushed her into the wall, the door kicked shut behind him. Leona’s hands were instantly balled into his loose shirt - he was always hot now, too hot for heavy winter clothes - and he could hear the threads scream under her strength._

_“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Ludanis was behind him, hands braced on the wall, caging both he and Leona in. They both must have just eaten. Vesemir could smell the blood and satisfaction on them, the contentment. It didn’t undercut their scents, but it stung his eyes and made his gums itch. His cock stirred in his pants and he wanted to thrust forward._

_“Easy, my wolf,” Leona said, her eyes hot on him. Her fingers petted his hair - the very hair that was losing its grey and going full white, like Geralt’s - and her fingertips tangled around the strands. “We know what you need.”_

_“Our power lies in the body. In the way we can touch others and make them feel like they’re floating. Or, if they wish, the pleasure we can bring them.” Ludanis pressed his lips to Vesemir’s ear, the hard plane of his body bearing down on them both. “The crack of a whip. The brush of a collar. The cold metal of chains. The teasing skim of fingertips. The wet warmth of a tongue on oversensitized skin.” Strong fingers dug into his shoulders, hard enough to bite into sore muscles but not enough to hurt. “The pull of desire is stronger than money or power. We learn to wield it carefully, wisely.”_

_The next words curled in Vesemir’s gut like a strong hit of whiskey. They buckled his knees, made him gasp. “Let us show you.”_

* * *

“I know you’re there, cub.”

Ciri grinned at Vesemir over the balcony railing. “But not at first?”

He scratched idly at his cheek. An old habit that would probably take forever to rid himself of, but the scrape of blunt fingernails on his smooth skin jolted him back into the moment. “Apparently vampire hearing is more sensitive than a Witcher’s.” He smiled at her, careful of his fangs. “Come on down. You might as well start your lesson.” 

She groaned but obeyed, skipping down the stairs with the light feet of a small human. _A child_ , he had to constantly remind himself. Because looking at her with new eyes and raw senses, he could smell her magic. It lingered under skin and sparked in her eyes, but she was all power and no purpose. Her magic spoke to him, but also repelled the more animalistic parts of his nature.

Vesemir now understood why Leona wanted to be near Ciri all the time, but also had to walk away to clear her head after every lesson.

As they worked on a new alchemical recipe he’d been tinkering with, Vesemir watched his young charge closely. She was already growing up - getting taller, wiser, moving faster and with more grace as his boys trained her to handle a sword and bow. The beginnings of calluses were forming on her fingertips and palms, and she’d ditched her heavy robes for more practical, streamlined clothing. Things she could run and jump and fight in.

Ciri had already grown up so much just in a few months. And they were only in the middle of winter.

Ludanis had traveled back to his home for a short time to deal with an issue with a fledgling. Leona was out with Eskel and Lambert, running the horses through their paces. Everyone had discreetly gone off to other tasks, so Geralt and Jaskier could be alone.

Vesemir’s lips twitched in a secret smile, quickly tamping down on it so Ciri didn’t see. 

* * *

“You spoil me, Geralt.”

Geralt shook his head and hummed but didn’t turn around. He could feel the weight of Jaskier’s gaze on his bare back, feel it scrape down to travel over his buttocks and thighs. Jaskier’s little sigh of appreciation made it worth standing naked on the freezing flagstones.

“I should have been an artist,” he boldly proclaimed, finishing the sketch with a flourish. “Come here, love.”

Suppressing a shiver, Geralt quickly crossed the room and crawled into the warm bed to curl up beside Jaskier. But he definitely let his frozen toes skate over Jaskier’s calf and when the bard yelped in surprise and swatted at him, he laughed. “Fucking cold over there,” he grumbled, moving his foot closer to Jaskier’s leg. 

“Don’t you dare!” But Jaskier was laughing, so much that his pencil rolled off the pad of paper and onto the bed. “What do think?”

Geralt peered down at the sketch. It was….shockingly accurate. In the short time Jaskier had taken to draw Geralt’s nude form, he’d also managed to shade it, giving the drawing life and depth. It almost leapt off the page. With a hesitant finger, Geralt touched the edge of the paper. “This is really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Warmth bloomed in his chest at Jaskier’s pleased noise. “Can I keep it?”

“Of course, darling.” Jaskier set the pad aside and pulled Geralt into a sweet kiss, all warm, dry lips. Soft hands toyed with the ends of his hair and rested on his shoulder, and Geralt leaned in, seeking more.

They tumbled backwards, Jaskier landing with a surprised _oof_ and staring up at Geralt with wide blue eyes. “Happy anniversary,” Geralt said, fighting back a stupid, goofy smile at the way Jaskier’s face lit up.

“Wait...what?”

Geralt tucked his face into Jaskier’s neck and planted soft kisses down it, letting his lips skim over his collarbone. “We met five years ago.”

“Oh.” And then a very soft, “Oh, Geralt. You big, gushy, soft-hearted lump of Witcher.”

Geralt bit down on his shoulder, and Jaskier’s noises turned into a groan of pleasure. Lust rose in his scent, fire-heated cinnamon and tart apple, and Geralt wanted to drown in it. He licked and mouthed his way across Jaskier’s chest, feeling every twist of thin, clever fingers in his hair. Jaskier was already bucking up against him, the velvet weight of his quickly hardening cock brushing against Geralt’s thigh.

“Behave,” he growled, pushing the bard down with a firm hand. “Or we wait until the others are back.”

Jaskier tossed his head, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “That’s not a threat, darling,” he replied a little breathlessly.

“It is if I tie you up and make you watch.”

“Dirty.” Jaskier grinned, all cheek now. “I like it.”

But he listened, and stilled, letting Geralt taste as much of him as he wanted. When his Witcher fumbled with the pot of slick, fingers shaking ever so slightly, Jaskier wrapped his hand around his wrist. “What is it?”

Geralt grimaced, the concern in Jaskier’s voice not the emotion he wanted to elicit. “I just….” He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, the knot in his chest swelling so much it threatened to cut off the air to his lungs. “You drive me crazy, you know that? You’re every single thing we’re warned against as Witchers and yet….here I am. Holed up in the middle of winter with you, desperate for these months to not end.” He blinked, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I love you.”

Jaskier blinked a few times, then sat up slowly and pulled Geralt down into a searing kiss. “You soft-hearted lump of a Witcher,” he murmured. “I love you too.”

* * *

“So after winter, where will you go?”

Leona turned to see Eskel looking at her closely. His gaze was almost always keen, even when he was lust-addled or focusing intently on some project. She felt it scrape over her now, looking for every little sign or twitch or flicker of emotion. “It all depends on Ciri and Vesemir,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “One or both may need me even after the season, and if that is the case, I will stay.”

“And if they don’t?” Lambert asked from her side as he slid off his own horse. Lambert could never conceal his emotions fully, so the curiously blank mask he wore told her something was up.

“You have a suggestion?”

“More like an idea.” Now he smirked, and Leona wanted to kiss it off his face. She was fond of all of them at Kaer Morhen, but Eskel and Lambert had claimed a piece of her heart she’d never given away. And with them it was far too easy to lean in and accept what they offered. “Vesemir can’t rebuild the Wolves on his own. He asked us to stay on through spring, help get things settled.”

Her gaze flicked back to Eskel. “And the Path?”

He shrugged and stepped closer. “This is more important than the Path. And Geralt and Jaskier are going back out for a bit. Your homeland apparently has a bit of a vampire problem. Ludanis asked for them to assist.” Leona gave him a knowing look but said nothing. “We thought maybe you could stay on at the keep.”

Lambert was now at her side, sliding an arm around her waist. “There’s a few things we’ve not shared with Eskel, you know.”

“I am curious.” Eskel was in front of her, staring down with heat in his eyes. “Lambert seems to think I could benefit from similar….treatment.”

Of all the times they’d been together, Eskel had never asked to be bound or gagged, to be left helpless and trusting in her care. And now that he was implying elsewise….

“You wish to be known in such a way?” she purred, leaning into his warmth.

“And some of us want to move on to other things.” Lambert dropped a single object into her palm with a shit-eating grin.

Leona blinked. The clamp’s craftsmanship was exquisite. “Then perhaps we should head back.”


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! I may have interstitial chapters or pieces left to write, but this is the bulk of the story. Thank you to everyone who read along!

Spring at Kaer Morhen came in on a gust of breeze and the roil of dark clouds on the horizon. Near-constant snowfall had left the grounds sticky with mud, and the incoming rains sloughed off entire parts of the yards and gardens. 

The Witchers typically came back in soaked, and covered in mud and weeds, their hands cramped from the cold. And Jaskier was always there with warm food, ale, wine, and a roaring fire. The movement of the three youngest Witchers and the half-fae bard was easy, practiced, and always dotted with lingering touches and casual glances at bare backs and rain-slicked hair.

For the first time in many decades. Vesemir left Kaer Morhen to travel. He and Leona needed volunteers, now that their human trial had been perfected and the risk of death, while always present, was minimal. And it was both ironic and perfect that they were bound for Toussaint. The land of blood and wine and their first meeting all those years ago. 

Ciri was sent back to the sorcerers to learn more practical uses of her burgeoning power, and she did call on Leona a few times when she felt overwhelmed. It cracked something in Leona’s heart to know the child trusted her in such a way.

One night deep into spring, the door to the keep banged open, jolting a bed full of Witchers and one bard wide awake. Geralt sniffed at the air, then grinned. “Vesemir’s back.”

Lambert grumbled and threw an arm over his eyes. “Couldn’t he use a portal?”

“Hates ‘em as much as I do.” Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “Sleep. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Jaskier was quick with his hands; no more so when he felt he was being left behind or out of something exciting. He poked Eskel in the ribs until the bigger man shifted his heavy leg away, leaving Jaskier to bound out of bed and snatch his clothes off a chair. “Come on!”

Despite his grouching, Lambert was the first to arrive in the main hall to see Vesemir, Leona, Ludanis with two strangers in tow. Twins - identical, from their shiny black hair and storm-grey eyes to the dimples in their cheeks. The young women stared in wonder at the soaring walls and heavy furniture of Kaer Morhen, delighted looks on their cherubic faces.

Jaskier caught sight of the twins and laughed uproariously. “Astrid? Angelique? My gods, it’s been an age.”

He sped past the Witchers and pulled the women into a double-armed hug, his face broke open in a grin. “We first heard him perform when we were children,” one of the twins said, her accent heavy with the rasp of Toussaint. “Mother even had us under his tutelage for a while.”

Jaskier grimaced playfully. “Ah, yes. Please do remind everyone how old these bones are getting, won’t you? How is your mother, by the by?”

The other twin flinched and looked down sadly. “Dead. It’s been a year. But we are here now, and we wish to take on the transformation.”

The story they relayed was of a land besieged by creatures - creatures driven off the Continent by wars and the efforts of the Witchers. They had now taken up root in Toussaintand the surrounding countries; none of which were lands used to such an influx and wide array of monsters. 

“We will fight for our home, and our people.” The iron in Astrid’s voice quelled some of the worry in Geralt’s gut. He’d heard will like that before, but not often. These two might actually make good Witchers.

“Then get comfortable,” Ludanis said as he handed them both their packs. “This is your new home.”

When winter made itself known with a blizzard, Kaer Morhen was once again home to the Wolves. The three Witchers returned to find a bustling fortress, and their ranks now doubled in size. It would not look like much to anyone else, but for Vesemir, it was a new beginning. One he got to share with his boys.

When the snow finally stopped and the fortress had been secured against the cold that seeped through all the cracks in the stone, Vesemir met Leona in the gardens for a hunt. “Ready, my wolf?”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter @hallithedm and @terrible_party; [Patreon creating TTRPG publications and streams](https://www.patreon.com/hallithedm?fan_landing=true), and Twitch under terrible_party.


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